Young, Gifted and Deadly

by William Stafford

  “Are you there?”

  The voice in his ear brought him out of his reverie of self-justification.

  “Yes, my love. I’m all yours - if you play your cards right and don’t make me sleep on the wet patch.”

  At the other end of the line, Beatrice Mooney shuddered, almost retching. “Have you seen the news?”

  “Only news I need to see, chicken, is how my shares are doing.”

  “It’s Paul. Paul Barker.”

  “Who?”

  “Paul! Barker’s Bogs. He’s been murdered.”

  “Oh! That would explain why he didn’t come to the meeting. Don’t you worry your pretty little head about nothing, sweet cheeks. I’ll cover what he was planning to put in. The project will still go ahead.”

  “Um - right.” It hadn’t been at the forefront of Beatrice Mooney’s mind. “That’s good of you, Dennis.”

  “And I’ll send the widow a bunch of flowers - No, fuck that. A hamper of the finest produce from our internationale range. He did have a Mrs, didn’t he?”

  Beatrice winced. He’d pronounced it ‘internationarly”. “Um, yes. I expect so.”

  “Because he always struck me as a bit...”

  “What?”

  “You know. You wouldn’t trust him to be a lollipop man. He had that kind of look about him. You know what I mean.”

  “I’m not sure I do.”

  “Well, it’s full steam ahead. Not going to let one little hiccup get in our way.”

  “Hiccup? A man is dead!”

  “And there’s fuck all I can do about it.”

  Beatrice Mooney sighed. “No, I suppose not. Have you heard from Barry?”

  “Who?”

  “Barry. Barry Norwood.”

  “Oh! Barry! Not since the meeting, no. Why? Should I?”

  “I’ve been trying to phone him.”

  “Oh, have you now?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what for, might I ask?” Dennis snapped. He didn’t like it when people had conversations that did not include him. Even though she was miles away, Beatrice Mooney flinched.

  “Well, it’s - I’m - Listen, Dennis, I’m not sure this is the direction I want to take the school in, and all this business with Paul...”

  Dennis Lord roared. “Now, you listen here, you stuck-up bitch. I’ve already invested a shitload of money in your shithole of a school and, what’s worth more, a shitload of my valuable time. Your shithole of a school will become an academy whether you like it or not. Whether you’m working there or not. Am I making myself clear?”

  “Y - yes, Dennis.”

  “Good. This business with Barker - how is it related to our business? It’s not. That’s how. It’s unfortunate but it’s nothing to do with us. Tell you what, I’ll send you one of them hampers and all. Cheer you up a bit.”

  Beatrice Mooney hung up.

  “Moody cow,” said Dennis. He buzzed through to his P.A. “Bridget, love. Send a hamper internationarly to that Mooney woman up at the school.”

  “I’ll see to it right away,” said Bridget’s disembodied voice.

  “Oh - and - almost forgot - add a couple of thousand extra reward points to Mrs Barker’s loyalty card, would you? Least we can do.”

  “Yes, sir. Terrible thing-”

  “I don’t want to be disturbed. I’m working on my big thing.”

  “Yes, s-”

  But Dennis cut her off. He pulled out a set of plans and admired them. A school was one thing but this baby...

  In her office in Priory High, Beatrice Mooney chewed at a perfectly manicured fingernail. She refreshed the local news website on her browser. A new headline appeared.

  LOCAL MAN BURNT TO A CRISP IN DEDLEY CAR PARK INFERNO

  The accompanying photograph showed the remains of the car and the forensic team swarming around it. And there, beyond the dividing hedge, looming in the distance was Priory High School itself.

  Not exactly one for the brochure.

  She scrolled through the article. Details were sketchy. The ‘local man’ was not being named but Beatrice Mooney’s stomach was performing cartwheels. A feeling of dread brought her out in a sweat.

  She tried Barry Norwood’s number again, only to be told by a pre-recorded robot that it was unavailable.

  ***

  In his room, Logger received a call. No prizes for guessing who was calling.

  “What the fuck is going on?” the distorted voice barked. Logger had to hold the handset away from his ear.

  “How’d you mean?”

  “How do I mean? Are you completely ignorant of current events?”

  “Oh! That!”

  “Yes! That. A second man dead. The second of our targets. Dead.”

  “It’s not my fault-”

  “How are you going to coerce, manipulate and blackmail dead men, Lawrence? You’re not. That’s how.”

  “But - but - doesn’t it - isn’t it in your favour?” Logger dared to point out. “Two of the four out of the picture. They can’t go through with it now, can they?”

  The caller let out a long, weary exhalation.

  “No, you little shit, it isn’t in my favour. Think about it for a nanosecond, will you? With half the team gone, the whole project could be cancelled.”

  “But I thought-”

  “That’s just it: you didn’t think. Oh, just lie low for a few days. Let the dust settle. Do nothing until you hear from me. Understood?”

  “Y-”

  But the line was dead.

  “Do nothing” Logger mocked his phone. Oh, I can do that all right. I can do nothing. Twice, if you like.

  ***

  Callum was seething. He slammed the front door and stomped along the path and away from the house, letting his anger lead him. How dare she? How fucking dare she?

  He had never seen those photos on his phone before and certainly hadn’t taken them. What the hell did she think he was?

  It must have been the others. They must have taken pictures of their own arses when they had his phone the other night. Some kind of joke. Part of the initiation, no doubt. Serves me right for not checking, for trusting them.

  Logger, Dogger and Bonk, he could forgive. But Mum - never! All those insinuations she made. As if there was anything wrong with being gay - which I’m not, but it wouldn’t matter if I was - Where did she go wrong, she kept wailing?

  Callum’s angry strides took him down the hill toward the town centre, where only rats and litter skittered in the empty marketplace. He carried on, past the council buildings, until he came to the car park, which was still cordoned off. All those poor office workers! Where would they park their cars in the morning?

  The school was a dark shadow against the sky. Callum kept walking, keeping the fence to his left. At the bottom of School Road there was a roundabout. Ahead was the Dorothy Beaumont nursing home - Callum’s gran had died in there - and beyond, the council estate where his new friends lived. But Callum was not interested in visiting the other members of the gang. Instead, he turned right and onto the park, where the ruins of a 10th century priory - the one that gave the school its name - stood like an abandoned Lego project.

  He picked his way past the chicken-wire fencing that guarded the most tumbledown remnants of the structure and knelt before a gaping gothic arch. Once it had been redolent with Biblical scenes depicted in dazzling stained glass. Now it was just a hole.

  The dampness of the grass seeped through the knees of his trousers. He shivered but stayed put. He closed his eyes and put his hands together.

  Are you there, Master?

  There was no answer. Callum repeated the question, out loud this time.

  “I have done your bidding,” he said, with
a wheedling tone creeping into his voice. “I have done everything you asked of me, and more will I do. But I need to see a sign; I need reassurance from you that I am doing the right thing, that your will is being done.”

  He opened his eyes. The arch continued to gape, as though in an eternal yawn.

  Callum gave up. He got to his feet and brushed off his knees.

  “Right,” he said. “Fine. I see.”

  He stomped away, tripping over stones that marked the perimeter of the ruins. He looked quickly over his shoulder to see if anyone - anything - had been watching. Blushing, he headed for home.

  As he reached his street, his mood improved. “Well,” he reflected, “he didn’t exactly tell me to stop, did he?”

  He let himself back into the house, not caring how much noise he was making. No more sneaking around! He would continue his present course.

  The master would be avenged!

  9.

  “Two dead men! Two five-pointed stars!” Wheeler’s eyes bored into those of each member of her team in turn. They all met her gaze, having learned years ago that to glance away was to invite an attack. “Harry.”

  “Um...” Harry Henry pushed his glasses up his nose and stumbled to his feet, shedding papers from a folder in the process.

  “Jesus squeeze us.” Wheeler stepped aside, giving the clumsy detective the floor. He groped in his jacket pockets for a marker pen.

  “Um,” he said, retrieving one and pulling off the cap. In five surprisingly deft strokes, he reproduced the star design on a flip chart. “The pentagram,” he announced. “Also known as the pentacle. An ancient symbol-” he consulted his notes “-approximated by Christians to represent the, um, five wounds of Christ on the cross.”

  The detectives frowned as they counted off what they could remember of the crucifixion from R.E. lessons... Two in the hands, one in the feet - if the legs were crossed, that is - the crown...

  “Hold up!” Stevens interrupted. “Am you telling me it’s Christians behind this? A bunch of guitar-strumming, happy-clappy, do-gooders garrotted one man and burned another one alive in his motor? Piss off.”

  Harry Henry awarded his vulgar colleague a patient smile. “Ah, no; I’m not. Behold!”

  He took hold of the flip chart pad and attempted to turn it upside-down, but it got caught on the pegs that attached it to the board. Harry struggled and stumbled. Chief Inspector Wheeler leapt out of the way just as the easel collapsed with Harry Henry on top of it. Stevens laughed like a tickled donkey. Brough and Pattimore helped the hapless Harry to his feet. Brough retrieved the pad and tore off the sheet.

  “Is this what you mean?” He turned the page upside-down. The star now had two of its points at the top.

  “Yes,” said Harry. “An inverted pentacle is a sign of evil.”

  “Inverted pentacles,” scoffed Wheeler. “That’d make you walk funny!”

  Miller pointed at the drawing with her biro. “And what way up were they at the murder scenes?”

  “The evil way, you dozy bint!” said Wheeler.

  “Depends which way you approach it,” said Stevens.

  “Let’s have a look-see,” said Wheeler. After some considerable ado, Brough took over her attempts to work the video projector. Images of the crime scenes appeared on the white board. The star on the top of Barry Norwood’s car had one point in the direction of the bonnet. The other, beneath the bleeding body of Paul Barker, was apparently the right, non-evil, way up with his head, arms and legs all with a point of their own.

  “Interesting,” said Pattimore.

  “One’s good, one’s evil,” said Wheeler. “What the fuck’s going on?”

  “Um...” said Harry, wilting under her stare.

  “It’s like Ben said,” Pattimore continued. He approached the screen. “It depends which way you look at it. Here on the car, it’s clearly inverted but on the bandstand... if we take the head point to be the bottom - Harry, where are they pointing?”

  “Um...”

  “What lies in that direction?”

  “Um...”

  “Get a map,” said Brough. Pattimore nodded, glad of the support. “Let’s see where they’re both pointing.”

  They set to work at the laptop. A minute later, a Google map appeared on the screen with the locations of the murders pinpointed.

  “If we follow a line from the head point of Barker’s star, along here...” Brough ran his finger along the white board.

  “And another from Norwood’s,” Pattimore did the same. Their fingers touched. They jumped back, as though electrocuted.

  “Priory High School,” said Wheeler, squinting at the intersection. “Christ.”

  “Actually,” said Harry, “Christ had nothing to do with it. An inverted pentagram is a symbol of an occult figure called Baphomet. It looks a bit like him, do you see? His horns, his beard - Did I mention he looks like a goat?”

  “Fuck off,” Wheeler snatched the drawing. “You ain’t telling me these men were murdered by an evil goat named Bathmat. Fuck that shit.”

  “Um, no...” Harry’s glasses fell off.

  “No, Chief,” said Brough. “But his followers...”

  Wheeler shook her head. “The only reason to follow a goat is with a bucket and spade. For your roses. Don’t give me this devil worship bollocks.”

  “Lots of nutters out there, Chief,” said Stevens.

  “They’m not all out there,” she shot back. “So, these poor sods each got a star. What else links them? Why them, I mean? Why were they singled out?”

  “According to Barker’s diary,” said Miller, holding out a photocopied sheet, “he was due at a meeting in Birmingham but, of course, he never showed up. On account of being murdered.”

  “Whoopee-cack,” said Wheeler. “So fucking what?”

  “The second victim, Barry Norwood, was at that meeting.”

  Miller’s words hung in the air.

  “How do you know this, Mel?” said Brough.

  Miller smiled. “While you’ve been running around with my boyfriend, I’ve been doing my homework.”

  Brough turned red. “Well, good work, Miller.” He cleared his throat.

  “And what was this fucking meeting about?” said Wheeler. “Who else was there?”

  “Do you think they’re at risk, Chief?” said Pattimore.

  “I fucking do. I wouldn’t be surprised if Bathmat wipes the floor with them.”

  No one laughed.

  “Bunch of bastards,” Wheeler snarled. “All right, Brough, Miller, you chase up the missing washing-line. Jason, you take Monkey Man up to the school. I want you in there, undercover.”

  “How do you mean?” Stevens bristled, correctly surmising that he was the aforementioned Monkey Man. “You want us to dress up as kids?”

  Wheeler emitted a hollow laugh. “No, as supply teachers, you dipshit. I want eyes and ears on the floor.”

  “Can’t Brough do it?” Stevens wailed. “He likes dressing up.”

  “That’s true,” said Brough, but before he could go on to list the many times he had donned impenetrable disguises in order to bring villains to justice, Wheeler dismissed the option outright.

  “Nah. Thanks to his A-list movie star boyfriend, his mug is too well-known. Even if he wore a hat. No, it’s got to be you two. Brough, what you can do is try to find where that washing-line came from - you said you had a lead?”

  “Yes, Chief.”

  “Well, put Miler on it and take her for walkies. No offence, Mel; just my little joke.”

  “What?” said Miller.

  “Oh, do try to keep up!”

  “No, I get it; I just don’t understand why you’m putting Jason and Ben into the school. What’s the school got to do with it? Just because some lines
on a map...”

  Everyone considered Miller’s words. She had a point.

  “Because I fucking said so,” Wheeler snapped. “And because four of those fuckers fucked up the supermarket while I was there! And there’s no way they’m getting away with that!”

  The team held its collective breath. They knew that when the chief inspector’s face turned that particular shade of red, she was not to be contradicted. All they could do was wait until she stopped panting and her shoulders stopped going up and down like twin pistons. Her grip was so tight on a plastic chair that the backrest snapped off.

  “Um,” Harry Henry dared to speak. “You’re bleeding, Chief.”

  “Yes, too fucking right I’m bleedin’ chief and don’t you forget it.”

  “No, I mean literally.” He nodded to her hand. Wheeler gaped at it as though it belonged to someone else.

  “Coo,” said Stevens. “Red blood.”

  He ducked as the rest of the chair came sailing through the air toward him.

  “Harry,” said Wheeler, sucking at the wound, “I want more info on the devil worship - anything you can tell me - and also some antiseptic and a plaster.” She glared at the team. Blood glistened on her lips. “Go on then,” she nodded at the exit. “Fuck off.”

  ***

  Stevens’s Ford Capri pulled onto the staff car park at Priory High. They had stopped off at Pattimore’s flat so that Jason could change into a suit. The only concession Stevens was making was to borrow a tie.

  “You’ll do, I suppose,” was the younger detective’s appraisal. “You get some right weirdos as supply teachers.”

  “And what the fuck’s wrong with my tan leather jacket? I’ve had it for yonks.”

  “I think you’ve just answered your own question. Come on.”

  Pattimore got out, slamming the door more forcefully than Stevens liked.

  “Fuck me up a gum tree.” Stevens got out and looked at the school. “This is not going to go well.”

  Pattimore held open the door to Reception. “You must show no fear, Ben. They’ll smell it on you.”

  Stevens whimpered. Chuckling, Pattimore followed him inside.