by Tim Ellis
She put his shandy down on the bar. ‘Of course, Sir. Which table are you sitting at?’
‘None at the moment.’ He looked around. There weren’t many customers – an old grey-haired woman with a middle-aged man in a business suit; a husband and wife with two young children; a builder with more tattoos than the illustrated man; and a couple of regulars standing at the bar like they owned the place. He shuffled onto a barstool. ‘What about here?’
‘Fine, Sir.’
Apart from her greasy hair, her tombstone teeth, her bulging eyes and her non-existent breasts, she wasn’t bad looking.
He was beginning to despair of ever solving the conundrum of Lancer Communications, Sally Tomkins and Inspector Quigg’s missing daughter – Phoebe. If what he thought was true – and they had killed Sally’s parents; Maria and Alfonso Perez together with two of their foster children; Sue Hutton, Peter Minshall and Deirdre Fishlock; and Sally Tomkins; how many other people had they killed? And how many more would they kill? And for what? What was it all about?
Chapter Ten
‘You can lead on this one, Dwyer.’
‘Me?’
‘You were a Sergeant last time I looked. And didn’t I hear you say something about the Satanists not cooperating? Well, now’s your chance to contribute something positive to the investigation.’
‘I think I’ve . . .’ Her voice tailed off.
‘. . . Realised I was right?’
‘What I’ve realised is that it’s not worth arguing with a bigot, Sir.’
‘Me – a bigot! I’ll have you know I’m a moderate humanitarian with no axe to grind. You’re the one who dislikes me, Dwyer. How many Satanists are there in the UK?’
‘About three thousand. It’s a bone fide religion, and recognised on the Census as such.’
Quigg laughed. ‘Isn’t that an oxymoron?’
Dwyer shrugged. ‘I suppose you could say that, but aren’t we expected to practise religious tolerance now as well?’
‘The Metropolitan Police Service are renowned the world over for their religious tolerance.’
Dwyer’s lip curled up. ‘We don’t care what religion they are when we beat them senseless?’
‘Exactly. I see you have the potential to rise to the very pinnacle of our fine profession, Sergeant.’
Dwyer parked the car outside the LC Club on Deacons Rise. There wasn’t much to the front of the club. The brick had been painted a matt black, which in turn had been partially covered by graffiti, or as the purists liked to call it – urban art. Quigg was of the opinion that unless the owner of the walls in question – usually the local authority – had commissioned the urban art, it fell under the category of criminal damage, and the culprits should be pursued with vigour and prosecuted to the full extent of the law.
Metal mesh covered the windows. There were CCTV cameras on the left and right corners of the building, and one above the windowless main metal door, which had also had been painted a matt black.
‘Who’s in charge?’ he said.
‘Lilith.’
‘Why is everyone trying to be a comedian today, Dwyer?’
‘I don’t know about the other people, but I’m being serious.’
‘Go on?’
‘Her real name was Patti Lawler, but she changed it by deed poll to Lilith in 1987.’
‘So, she’s how old?’
‘Sixty-five.’
‘And she’s . . . what is she called?’
‘The High Priestess.’
‘At sixty-five?’ He gave a laugh. ‘More like the Droopy Priestess.’
‘I see what you mean about everyone trying to be a comedian today, Sir.’
‘When you’re ready, Sergeant.’
They climbed out of the car and Dwyer banged on the door.
‘And again,’ Quigg said. ‘Only this time shout: “Police, let us in”.’
Dwyer did as Quigg instructed her.
They heard clanking as the door opened.
‘See, that generally works.’
A tall bald-headed man with a black goatee beard, big ears and a gold circular medallion incorporating a five-pointed star with what looked suspiciously like Satan engraved inside stood in the opening.
‘Yes?’
‘Here to see Lilith Lawler,’ Dwyer said, showing the man her warrant card. ‘DS Dwyer and DI Quigg.’
‘She’s known simply as Lilith,’ the man said.
‘Whatever. Is she here?’
‘Please enter.’ He stepped aside to let them in, and then shut the door behind them.
It was like the black hole of Calcutta inside, and reeked of incense and peppermint.
‘Have you had the electricity cut off?’ Dwyer said.
‘We like the darkness.’
‘I hope you’re not growing illegal peppermint in here,’ Quigg quipped.
‘Please follow me,’ the man said, ignoring him.
‘You don’t know when to stop, do you, Sir?’
‘I thought it was funny.’
They were led into a large room with a bar and only a few lights. There were a number of round tables with chairs, and what looked like rubber mattresses on the floor. At one of the tables, surrounded by half-a-dozen semi-naked men and women in goat masks, sat a woman with jet-black hair wearing a black latex jumpsuit. She was closer to thirty than twenty, attractive with dark red lipstick and more than her fair share of mammary glands. The front and back of her jumpsuit were held together by latex slats that revealed a significant amount of flesh and suggested that she wasn’t wearing a bra or panties underneath.
Quigg licked his lips as his eyes tunnelled down her ample cleavage. ‘We wanted to see Lilith the High Priestess.’
‘You’re staring at her breasts,’ the woman said.
He glanced at Dwyer. ‘Forgive me if I’m a bit sceptical, but aren’t you meant to be sixty-five years old?’
‘That’s right. I put my superb physical condition down to eating the right foods and plenty of sex.’
‘What about human blood?’
‘You think I’m a vampire?’
‘Isn’t Lilith the mother of vampires? And aren’t vampires meant to be immortal?’
‘Of course. I drink three pints of the red nectar a day.’
Some of her followers sniggered.
‘Who are you?’
‘Detective Inspector Quigg and Detective Sergeant Dwyer from Hammersmith Police Station.’
‘And what brings you to our den of iniquity?’
‘We’d like to talk to you about a woman’s body that was discovered in Highgate Cemetery yesterday morning.’
‘Why?’
‘We’ve received information that you conduct certain . . . rituals in the cemetery catacombs.’
Lilith laughed. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Inspector. Do we look like we frequent cemeteries?’
‘Looks can be deceptive.’
‘I don’t know what you’ve heard or read, but we are not full of hate against God or organised religions. We’re not vampires or demons, nor do we worship the devil.’ She pointed to the gold medallion hanging round the bald-headed man’s neck. ‘The Sigil of Baphomet, which incorporates a symbol of Satan, is used to represent the indomitable spirit of mankind and freedom from oppression. We don’t recite the Lord’s Prayer backwards, steal wine from churches to desecrate the host, or practise any rituals. We live simple lives. We actively promote human rights issues such as women’s health and same-sex marriage. There’s no such thing as Satanic Ritual Abuse, we have nothing at all to do with paedophiles and we abuse nobody. Are there any other questions?’
Quigg looked at Dwyer. ‘Over to you, Sergeant.’
‘The dead woman in the cemetery had one of your ultraviolet stamps on her ankle,’ Dwyer directed at Lilith.
‘So, that’s what led you here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well that must be proof positive that we killed her.’ She began to unzip the front of her latex jumpsuit. ‘I
suppose you’d better get your handcuffs out and begin the torture.’
Quigg had left his handcuffs in the car, and wondered if Dwyer would let him borrow hers. Yes, he’d be more than willing to take first turn in torturing her.
‘This is a members-only club, isn’t it?’ Dwyer said.
‘It is.’
‘I’d like a copy of your membership list, please.’
‘We don’t keep one.’
‘Then how do you remember who your members are?’
‘We just do. We know all of our members intimately.’
‘I see you have CCTV. We’d like a copy of the footage from Sunday night, if that’s possible.’
Lilith sat back in her chair. ‘Don’t you need a search warrant, or something?’
‘Actually – no. We’re lawfully on the premises with your consent, because you invited us in. We therefore have the right to seize any items that may be linked to a crime, and I would categorise CCTV footage of the last known movements of our victim as such. Not only that, I’m sure you’re keen for us to catch the killer of one of your members.’
The High Priestess gave the bald-headed man a nod. ‘Copy it onto DVD.’
He walked away.
She turned back to Dwyer. ‘I would ask you to be discreet.’
‘The Metropolitan Police Service are renowned the world over for their discretion.’
‘Of course they are.’
Quigg chipped in. ‘Discreet about what?’
‘Some of our members are in the public eye.’
‘In the public eye! You mean like heavy metal rock stars?’
‘Yes, we have a couple of those, but also television personalities, local politicians, some senior police officers, judges, Members of Parliament and the House of Lords . . .’
‘Really?’
‘Satanism offers a unique perspective on religion, Inspector.’
‘Unique – in what way?’
‘You shouldn’t listen to everything you hear about Satanism. We don’t sacrifice animals or babies, nor do we take illegal mind-altering drugs. We believe that we should live out our lusts and desires and wholeheartedly explore the first four of the seven deadly sins with other consenting adults.’
‘Only the first four?’
‘Yes – lust, gluttony, greed and sloth. We don’t bother with wrath, envy and pride – they’re no fun at all.’
The bald-headed man reappeared and handed Dwyer a DVD in a plastic cover.
‘Thanks,’ she said.
Lilith smiled. ‘On that DVD you’ll see that we practise what we preach. We regularly take part in consensual orgies in an attempt to find inner truth and harmony.’
‘An orgy?’
‘Yes. We could have an orgy now if you’re interested, Inspector?’
An orgy! He was certainly interested in an orgy. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been involved in an orgy. In fact, he’d never been involved in one. Now would be the ideal opportunity. Exploring his lusts and desires with the High Priestess, Jane Dwyer and the other women in the room would work up an appetite before lunch. He glanced at Dwyer. ‘Are you interested, Sergeant?’
Dwyer’s eyes opened wide. ‘No I am not.’
He pulled a face. ‘It’s nice of you to offer Lilith, but as you can see – my Sergeant is a bit of a prude.’
‘Maybe you could come back one night on your own, Inspector?’
He nodded his head slowly. ‘Maybe I could.’
‘Is there anything else we can do for you?’
He looked at Dwyer.
She shrugged. ‘Not for me.’
‘Thanks for your help, Lilith,’ he said. ‘Maybe I’ll see you again.’
The bald-headed man guided them to the front door and let them out.
‘I can’t believe you asked me if I’d take part in an orgy,’ Dwyer said when they reached the car.
‘I was humouring them.’
‘And what would you have done if I’d said yes?’
‘I’d have humoured you as well.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Nothing.’
***
Was it really her father?
Surely it couldn’t be him after all this time.
She’d even forgotten she had a father until the vegetable soup had triggered the memory.
And Billy! She had a brother. He would have been too young to remember her, and she had buried the memory of him so deep it was in the tomb of her past.
What had caused her to bury the memories of her father and her brother? Why did her father leave? What had happened to him? To Billy? What had happened to her mother? What had happened to her?
Was her father really down here in this maze? It had to be him. He was the only other person who knew about how she liked chocolate spread and sugar sandwiches, orange juice mixed with eggs, and vegetable soup.
All her life she’d been afraid to confront those memories – why? She thought she knew, but she wasn’t sure.
In the meantime, she had a lock to open. Even if it was her father down here, she was still a rat in a maze. A maze that was holding her captive. If he was going to let her out he would have already done so.
She lit the candle again – there wasn’t much left of it. She’d wasted it on stupid memories. Memories of people that were ghosts from her past and had no bearing on her future. She pushed the soup away – she’d lost her appetite, but she took a long swallow of the orange juice and eggs.
Next, she turned her attention to the lock and picked up the two keys. Now that she’d had a half-decent sleep, the synapses of her brain were processing the chemical messengers a lot more efficiently, and she could piece together the frayed edges of the enigma. If there were two keys, either they fitted the same keyhole, or there was another keyhole that she hadn’t found yet. She’d already tried both the keys in the existing keyhole, so where was the second one? It could only be in one place, and by pressing and twisting everything, it didn’t take her long to find it. She inserted the spare key into the second keyhole, turned and released the shackle, removed the lock from the metal ring and pushed it into the wall. The wall slid to the right.
Waiting for her on the other side was another half a candle, more matches, and a bottle of water. She put them all in her rucksack.
All she wanted to do now was to get out of the maze. Her head and her heart were breaking. She didn’t want to think about her father, her mother or her brother Billy. That life had been stolen from her. It was gone, and she could never get it back.
She checked the map she’d drawn and moved along the tunnel – right, right, left, right, right, left and . . . another wall. This one was different though – it had EXIT written in mosaic and cemented into the wall.
Her heart began dancing the hokey-cokey. Was it really the exit? Why not? She’d served her time. She’d been down here for days, weeks, months – who knew how long? She’d solved all the puzzles, conundrums and enigmas that had barred her way. Yes, why not? Why the fucking hell not?
On the floor in front of her lay eight metal discs about three inches in diameter. Each disc had a number from 1 to 8 engraved on it. She picked up number 5. It was solid, heavy and cold. Inset into the wall were eight holes in the shape of a diamond – two, four, two – for the circular discs to slot into.
It was in her nature to start putting the discs into the holes and then shuffling them about until something clicked, but she reined in her natural inclination to blunder about like an elephant in a porcelain factory. What would happen if she put a disc into the wrong hole? She was reminded of the three challenges in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. What she didn’t want was a scythe coming out of the wall and lopping off her head. That would be a kick in the teeth after all she’d been through.
Eight holes and eight numbers from 1 to 8. Is that how they were meant to be put into the holes – from 1 to 8? If it was, where did number 1 go? There was no obvious starting point. Oh, people tended to beg
in at the top left and move left to right – like reading a book, but it wasn’t the only starting point. Arabic languages started at the top right and went from right to left, Chinese went from top to bottom and right to left, so a start point was nowhere near as obvious as it should be, which suggested that the discs weren’t meant to be arranged from 1 to 8.
If she couldn’t put them in the holes, she could shuffle them round on the floor.
The rats were her constant companions. She wondered whether to let them have her cold vegetable soup, but she decided that she didn’t want to encourage them. She did, however, pour some water from the bottle onto the floor. They were living creatures after all, and she didn’t want to see them die of thirst when she had water.
What other ways could the numbers be arranged? From 8 to 1 had the same problem – no start point. Maybe arranging the numbers to add up to the same total along each line. The problem with that idea was the lines weren’t the same length. Vertically the lines were one, three, three, one. Horizontally – two, four, two. So that wasn’t the answer. If the numbers didn’t go consecutively, maybe they went inconsecutively. Was that a word? Was it possible to locate the numbers so that any two placed next to each other weren’t consecutive?
It took her a long time, but eventually she thought she had an answer and transferred the discs into the holes. When she put the last disc in its hole the wall slid to the right.
The rats hurried out.
A rush of cold air hit her in the face. She’d forgotten what fresh air tasted like, closed her eyes and breathed it in. She heard sounds – the sounds of people. Where was she?
She opened her eyes.
A man was standing three feet in front of her.
‘Hello, Lucy.’
***
He pushed the doorbell of 44 Underhill Road in East Dulwich hoping that Carol and Kenneth Hughes still lived there and were willing to talk to him. The theme tune from Star Wars began playing inside, and he expected a stormtrooper to march out and open the door.