Mother of Demons

by Maynard Sims

  “Hey, Fin. How’s it going?”

  The familiar voice broke him from his reverie. The voice belonged to Terry Butler. The last thing Clusky needed right now was Butler’s drunken intrusion into his own private contemplations.

  “When are you going to take us back to that gaff in Clerkenwell? Christ, that was a night. That girl, Alice, on the balcony. Stupid bitch. Man, was she out of it. Are they still together, that girl and Strasser?”

  Clusky shrugged. “I dunno. Never see them now.”

  “Why not? Man, I thought you were set up for life there. How much ice did you supply him?”

  “Keep your voice down,” Clusky hissed, and moved towards him threateningly.

  “Hey, keep calm, man. I didn’t mean anything by it. That was a great night though. Shame Davy decided to dance with a train, but he was so stoned. I wasn’t surprised when I heard. You seen Mikey?”

  “No, I haven’t seen Mikey. I told you both then, you thick, English prick, don’t contact me till I tell you otherwise. So fuck off,” Clusky said.

  “Hey, what’s up with you, man?” Butler slurred. “You pissed off with me or something? What have I done wrong?”

  “I’m busy,” Clusky said.

  Butler looked from side to side, to see what Clusky was busy with, but saw nothing. “You carrying? I’ve got money. I can pay.”

  The knife appeared in Clusky’s hand as if by magic. He kept it low, but jabbed it at Butler’s side. “I said, fuck off, and I meant it.”

  “Hey,” Butler said quietly. “Lighten up, man. I get it. You want to be alone. I’m going. Jesus!”

  As Butler moved away, Clusky closed the knife and slipped it back into the pocket of his jeans. Moments later his mind was trying to get back in the car with Kerry, and she was going to do whatever he wanted. But he couldn’t get there—couldn’t sustain the mood. Butler had ruined it.

  He slammed his hand down on the bar, making the glasses jump, swallowed the last of his pint and left the club. He walked back to the side street where he’d left his Suzuki motorcycle, slipped on his crash helmet, mounted the bike and started the engine. Seconds later he was riding across London, heading east.

  The alarm woke her at six. After a cereal bar and an energy drink, Susan dressed and walked down to the Embankment. At the point where they recovered Kerry Green’s body, she stopped and stared down at the water as it flowed sluggishly towards Greenwich. She looked back at Waterloo Bridge thoughtfully, took out her cell phone and dialed the station.

  Gillian answered on the second ring.

  “Gill, anyone else in yet?”

  “DS Bartlett, but he’s in the canteen getting breakfast. Do you want him?”

  “No, you can do it. Get on to Traffic. I want them to review the footage from the traffic cams on Waterloo Bridge, both directions.”

  “Okay. What time frame?”

  “Let’s say midnight through to five a.m.”

  “They’re going to love that.”

  “I don’t care. Just get them to do it. See if they have footage of any unusual activity.”

  “Like?”

  “Like someone throwing Kerry Green’s body off the bridge.”

  “I’m on it,” Gillian said.

  “Great. I’ll be in soon.” Susan rang off.

  Harry sat in his lounge, watching breakfast TV. He’d been watching news programs since five. Now it was the usual daytime fare of celebrity interviews, glib reports of things that were happening in the world, and competitions where viewers could win a year’s salary and a brand-new car by answering an inane question. Strange, he thought. They never gave away secondhand cars. The prizes were always brand new.

  “Crap,” he said irritably and switched it off.

  He showered and rang Violet. “Have you found out where Markos has his warehouse yet?”

  “And a very good morning to you, Harry. And no, I haven’t. I’m searching the Land Registry. If it’s listed, I should have an answer for you soon. Have you heard from Jason? Has he made contact?”

  “I’ve heard nothing so far. But it’s early yet. Give him time to get his skis on.”

  “I fear time may be running out for Alice,” Violet said.

  “We’re going as fast as we can, Vi. I’ve even involved the Metropolitan Police to try and speed up the search a bit.”

  “Drastic measures. Was that necessary?”

  “Drastic, yes, but they came to me initially. They’re dealing with what they think might be a ritual sacrifice. It could be linked to Anton Markos and the Children of Hecate.”

  “Oh, dear God!”

  “Don’t worry, Vi. It wasn’t Alice. Just another poor girl.”

  Violet gave a loud sigh of relief. “What’s the likelihood of Markos being involved?”

  “I’d say about ninety per cent, possibly more. From what Martin’s been able to find out, the Children are the only sect, cult, whatever you want to call them, operating in London. I need that address, Vi.”

  “I’m surprised your Martin hasn’t checked the Land Registry records.”

  “He might have done, but I haven’t been into the office yet. I’m leaving now. I want you to check, just to verify.”

  “Hey, Harry,” Martin said as Harry strolled into his office.

  “Had any luck tracing the warehouse?”

  Martin shook his head. “I can’t find anything on the Land Registry owned by either Erik Strasser or Anton Markos.”

  “No. Vi was trying as well. She’ll draw a blank too, no doubt.” Harry rubbed his chin.

  “How good is her intel that there actually is a warehouse?”

  “Well, she was right about the apartment in Clerkenwell and the house in Fairford.”

  “But we don’t know she’s right about the warehouse. The problem is, once the development schemes got underway, most of the warehouses were either pulled down to make way for housing, or the buildings were redeveloped and turned into apartments. I’ve searched as far out as Dagenham and Shoreditch for any property twenty thousand square yards and above. There are a few dotted about throughout the area, but nothing with Strasser/Markos name attached.”

  “Let me call her.” He pulled out his phone and dialed Violet’s number. “Vi, how positive are you about the warehouse?”

  “Is your boy having problems tracking it down?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. So am I. I was beginning to doubt my skills.”

  “So the warehouse is a definite?”

  “Is anything definite in this life?”

  “Vi! I’m trying to help you here?”

  “Sorry. I’m not being flippant. This is just getting to me. All I can think about is my niece, alone with that scumbag.”

  “Well,” Harry said. “Clear your head and tell me. Are you sure this warehouse actually exists?”

  “I’m sure. My source is unimpeachable.”

  “But you’re not going to tell me who it is?”

  “It doesn’t matter who it is, Harry. The intelligence is sound. Bye, Harry.” She rang off.

  “Bloody woman!” Harry snapped, drawing looks from Maggie and Christine. “Yes, Martin,” he said more evenly. “Her intel is good.”

  “Well, perhaps we’re going about this the wrong way. If you were renting or buying a warehouse, or something similar, that you’re going to use for nefarious purposes…”

  Harry raised his eyebrows. “Nefarious purposes?”

  “You know what I mean. Well, it stands to reason that you wouldn’t use your own name.”

  Harry thought for a moment. “Yes, I can see that. But that leaves us with even less of a clue than before.”

  “As I said, perhaps we’re going about this the wrong way.” He tapped a few keys and waited as the screen on his desk filled with lines of text divided int
o two holding boxes. “Right,” he said. “The box on the right, properties within a five-mile radius of the center of Docklands. The box on the left, the names of the owners or tenants.”

  Harry let his gaze drift down the list of names. After a few seconds he said, “There,” and tapped the screen with his finger. “Omicron Limited.”

  Martin looked at it questioningly.

  “Omicron. The fifteenth letter of the Greek alphabet.”

  Martin smiled. “I’m impressed.”

  “Probably the only benefit of a classical education.”

  “Let me search it on the Companies House website,” Martin said and started hitting keys again.

  The screen lit up again. “There you go. Omicron. Registered owner one Anton Markos. Importers of olive oil.”

  “Got him,” Harry said. “Address?”

  “Unit 14, Hawk Lane Industrial Estate, Barking.” He called up Google Maps. “It’s on the river, if that’s any help.”

  “Well done, Martin,” Harry said with a grin and patted Martin on the shoulder and went back to McKinley’s office. “John, fancy a trip?”

  “Somewhere exotic?”

  “An industrial estate in Barking, Essex.”

  McKinley shrugged. “You take me to all the best places,” he said.

  “Susan.”

  “Hello, Mr. Bai…Harry. What can I do for you?”

  “Omicron Limited. It’s a sham company, owned by Markos. A warehouse in Barking.”

  “Address?” she said, and jotted it on the blotter next to the other two addresses as Harry read it out to her. “I don’t suppose you can wait for me to apply for a search warrant?”

  “You won’t get one. No grounds. I’m driving over there now,” Harry said. “I’ll meet you there if you’re interested.”

  He disconnected and turned to McKinley. “Get your coat, John,”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Jason met her on the nursery slopes of the Kitzbühelerhorn Mountain. Dressed from head to toe in red, her hair tucked inside a woolen hat, mirror-lensed shades covering her eyes, she stood outside the postcard-perfect chalet where skiers could buy refreshments, holding a white card with his name on it. He skied across to her. “Fraulein Metz?” he said.

  She dropped the card in a nearby waste bin and gripped his gloved hand in both of hers. “Karin, please. Good day, Herr West,” she said and shook his hand. “Is it your first visit to Austria?”

  “Call me Jason. No, just my first time in Kitzbühel. I’ve been to Austria before, but never visited the Tyrol. It’s very beautiful.”

  He wasn’t exaggerating. The sweeps of snow-clad mountains were breathtaking. Dotted with picturesque, Swiss-style chalets and spiky pine trees, set in white, against a bright blue sky, the Austrian Tyrolean region was one of the world’s most stunning holiday destinations.

  Karin Metz smiled. “And it snowed last night, so the skiing is very good today.” Her English was good but heavily accented. He didn’t need telling about the snowfall. As he’d walked to the slopes this morning, snow had swallowed his boots and soaked into the legs of his ski pants.

  Karin gripped the finger of her glove with her teeth, shook her head and pulled it off. She took a small notebook from her pocket and flipped it open. “I have you down as intermediate. When did you last ski?”

  “A few years ago. I need you to tell me what I’m doing wrong.”

  She nodded her head vigorously. “Yes, I can do that. Come,” she said, “to the lift.”

  They skied together across to the chairlift, a continuous loop of cable with chairs hanging down from it, carrying skiers up the mountain to the various runs.

  “Take the lift up to the first slope and ski down from there. I’ll stand here and watch you. Okay?” Karin said.

  “Fine,” he said, and hopped aboard the first pair of seats that came past.

  He reached the top of the slope, alighted, moved his way across, settled himself and pushed off with his ski poles. The slope was quite gentle, but with the cold wind ripping past his face and the hiss of his skis over the crisp snow, it was only a matter of seconds before the adrenaline started coursing through his veins, making him feel exhilarated and slightly light-headed. He reached the bottom where Karin was standing, and snowplowed to a stop.

  She was watching him closely. “Not bad,” she said. “Next, we go up together and I’ll show you what is wrong with your…standing?”

  “Stance.”

  “Yes, stance. Come on.” She led the way and he followed her across to the chairlift again. They boarded the lift together and sat side by side as it carried them up the mountain. “We go slightly higher this time, yes?”

  “That’s good for me.” He sat back and stared across at the neighboring peaks, noticing the adrenaline rush subside slightly. He could feel the warmth of her body through the layers of clothing. She was extremely pretty. Even with no makeup and her hair hidden from view, she possessed a pure, fresh-faced beauty, and he found his anger at Anton Markos start to flow through him, replacing the adrenaline in his bloodstream.

  “Here,” she said and stepped off the lift. “Right, let’s try that again.”

  “We’ll take my car,” McKinley said. “I’ll drive.”

  “Fine,” Harry said, opened the passenger door of John McKinley’s Audi RS5 and got in.

  “Do you have the address?”

  Harry had it in his pocket on a scrap of paper. He found it and read it out while McKinley tapped it into his GPS. Soon they were heading east across London.

  The Hawk Lane Industrial Estate had little to recommend it. Set in a fairly run-down part of the borough, it consisted of rows of featureless units, interspersed with larger, and just as bland, warehouses.

  They found Omicron Ltd in the northwest corner. There was nothing to differentiate it from any of the other warehouses on the estate, apart from a white laminated sign with the name in gold capital letters and a rather crude drawing of an olive tree. But the warehouse was probably the biggest on the estate, built in cinder block with a green metal roof, and about the size of a small aircraft hangar. It looked deserted.

  McKinley stopped the car on a large concrete rectangle, and both men stepped out.

  “It doesn’t look like DI Tyler’s here yet,” Harry said.

  “Are we going to wait for her?”

  Harry shrugged and walked across to the large steel double doors at the front of the building. There was a small Judas gate set in the right-hand door that had a multidigit combination lock. He tried the handle but it didn’t budge.

  “Not a lock I can pick,” McKinley said.

  Set in the wall, either side of the door and nine feet from the ground, were a row of windows, each window a two-foot square of glass, with no visible means of opening them.

  Harry and McKinley stood back, wondering how to get inside. “Have you got anything in the trunk to force the door?” Harry said.

  McKinley shook his head. “A jack and a tire iron, not much else.”

  A dark blue Ford made its way down the service road towards them. As it reached the warehouse, it swung onto the concrete rectangle and drew to a halt next to McKinley’s Audi. Susan Tyler and Jake Bartlett stepped out and joined the two men.

  “What have we got?” Susan said to Harry.

  “There doesn’t seem to be anyone here,” he said.

  She clicked her tongue. “We need to see inside,” she said, looking up at the windows. “They’re too high. We need something to stand on. Jake, move the car and park it under the windows.”

  Bartlett threw her a mock salute and got back in the car. Jake Bartlett looked to be in his forties, tall and muscular, with a wide face and a flat nose. It was a face that had seen far too many bar brawls, but the dark brown eyes seemed kind, and they sparkled with good humor.

  He starte
d the car and drove it round until it was directly under the right-hand set of windows. He got out of the car, climbed onto the hood and stepped from the hood to the roof. The windows were now level with his chest. He crouched slightly and peered through one of the glass squares, and then moved along to look through another.

  “What do you see, Jake?”

  “Cushions,” he said. “Cushions all over the floor. There’s something against the side wall, but I can’t make it out. It’s too dark in there. Wait. There’s something else on the floor.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t know.”

  Susan reached into the car and said, “Try with this,” and handed him a long metal flashlight.

  Bartlett took the flashlight from her and shone it through the window. “Whatever it is, it’s catching the light. It looks wet, a puddle of something. Could be oil. It is meant to be an olive oil warehouse after all.”

  “Could it be blood?” Harry said.

  Bartlett moved back to the first window and shone the beam down to illuminate the floor.

  “Yes,” he said quietly after a few moments. “I think is.”

  “Come down, Jake,” Susan said. “Let’s figure out how to get inside.” Her police officer instincts were crying out to get inside as fast as possible. Wetness on a floor under these circumstances was likely to mean just one thing - she was certain it was blood.

  Jake Bartlett climbed down and the four of them stood staring at the door, looking for a solution.

  “We could always break a window and climb through,” McKinley said.

  “And how would the person that climbs through get out again if the doors don’t open from the inside?”

  “You’ve got me there,” McKinley said.

  “Who are you again? I recognize your face…and your height.”

  “Sorry,” Harry said. “John McKinley. A colleague. You met last year when we came to the station.”

  Susan stuck out her hand. “DI Tyler,” she said.