Pilgrim

by Devon De'Ath

  Betty pushed enormous glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Goodness. And now you run your own investigation business?” She reclined in her chair. “We should have you round for a motivational talk sometime.”

  Bill picked at a scab on one finger. “That’s not why I’m here today, but it’s a nice thought.”

  Betty clasped her hands together. “So how can I help?”

  Bill cleared his throat. “I’m looking into the disappearance of a rough sleeper, on behalf of someone. A private matter. Your charity is well known as a centre offering significant help, so I thought it a good place to start.”

  Betty inflated with pride, puffing out her chest like a pouting mother hen. “That’s good to hear. Do you have a name?”

  Bill wiped fingers across his mouth, concealing abject pleasure at the success of his disarming flattery. “I’m afraid not. Only a description. He was a man pushing forty. Trim build with wavy auburn hair and a subtle straw beard. Not much to go on. I don’t even have a photograph.”

  Betty clapped like an excited schoolgirl, bobbing on the seat. “Wonderful. Wonderful. It appears I can help solve your case.”

  Bill scratched his head. “How’s that?”

  “It’s Jeff. It must be. Jeff was a regular here until someone offered him a grounds keeping job and accommodation at a nearby country house. He used to be a gardener, before falling on troublesome times. That new job and home might account for why your client thinks he’s disappeared.”

  “I see.” Bill leaned forwards. “Do you have a picture of him?”

  “Ordinarily we wouldn’t, but Jeff appeared in our Christmas promotional material last year. Let me see if I’ve a spare copy.” Betty rotated her chair and yanked open the stiff drawer of a metal filing cabinet. She thumbed through half a dozen folders, then drew out a glossy, double-sided print handout. “See.” Betty pressed the page onto her desk, index finger pointing to a figure Bill recognised without reservation.

  “He fits the description given to me. Do you know which house he went to?”

  Betty stroked her chin. “One of our younger workers hooked him up with that position.” She rose, then walked to open the office door a crack, calling through the gap. “Katie? Could you come in here a moment, please?”

  Bill struggled not to give away his recognition of the pretty, grey and purple dyed, long-haired teenager who entered the room a moment later. She studied him with a flat expression. There was something unusual in those eyes. Something behind them. An intelligence? Heat rising to his head caused Bill to tug at his shirt collar. What was the deal with this girl? He was no prude. This flush couldn’t be embarrassment from knowing he’d watched her sexual exploits and blood-drinking shenanigans, could it?

  Betty indicated her visitor to Katie. “This is Mr Rutherford. He’s been hired to locate the whereabouts of a homeless man matching Jeff’s description. I told him about that job with room and board you arranged. Where was it again?”

  Katie’s eyes flashed. She waved a vague hand. “Out in the sticks on the way to Canterbury. But it doesn’t matter, now.”

  “Oh?” Betty stepped back.

  Katie placed one hand on her right hip. “No. It didn’t work out. Jeff only stayed a few days. A proper shame. I know you thought he was ready for a job.”

  Betty’s face fell. “Oh dear. Sad, but not uncommon. Has he been back to the centre? I haven’t seen him at lunch service.”

  Katie shook her head. “One of my friends mentioned he’d spoken about trying his luck elsewhere in the country. A fresh start in a new location. They paid him a week’s wage, even though he only worked a couple of days at the estate.”

  Betty patted one gullible hand across her own heart. “Bless. They sound like principled people. Such a shame Jeff couldn’t keep it going. I hope he doesn’t fall back into the bottle again.”

  Katie delivered an overdone nod of agreement that set Bill’s teeth on edge. “I’m sure we all hope that.” She looked from Bill back to Betty. “If there’s nothing else, I was in the middle of helping Angela with some paperwork.”

  Betty opened her office door. “Thank you, Katie. We won’t hold you up.”

  Bill ground his teeth. He clocked one lingering stare from the cold-eyed cultist. A diabolical energy radiated from those eyes. Their impact unsettled him, like being watched by some ancient creature filled with hatred and malice.

  Betty sat down again. “I’m sorry, Mr Rutherford. It seems you’ve arrived too late, and the trail has gone cold. Would you like me to contact you if Jeff shows up here again?”

  Bill thought for a moment. Pointless as it seemed, it would be out of character to decline such an offer. “Yes please.” He slid one of his business cards across the desk, then stood. “Thanks for your help. I’ve got something to tell my client now, for starters.” He pointed to the Christmas promotional material. “Would it be okay for me to hang onto this?”

  Betty passed it to him. “Fine. That way you can show the picture to whoever is looking for him.”

  “My thoughts exactly. I’m sure he’s the guy. This will confirm it.” He tucked the paper away in his jacket.

  Betty showed him to the door. “Thanks for stopping by, Mr Rutherford. Please come back again, if you’d consider delivering that motivational talk.”

  “I’ll do that. Thank you.”

  5

  Apokalupto

  Bredenstone Hill, on the Western Heights overlooking Dover, comprised several housing estates between leafy lanes a stone’s throw from the marina and port. There was nothing remarkable to your average person who turned up there by mistake. It was the last place in the world one might expect to find the ruins of a medieval church. Especially one used by The Knights Templar. Yet if you continued northwest past the houses to a dead-end, left-hand fork a hundred yards beyond, there it lay. Its tiny, keyhole-shaped flint foundations were easy to miss. They hid sandwiched between a fence of chestnut paling and a grassy bank. Overhanging deciduous trees fringed the site on three sides. Walkers on the North Downs Way stopped to read an information board beyond the fence from time to time. Otherwise there was little of obvious consequence to see. Uncovered during work to build fortifications in 1806, it featured a circular nave a mere ten metres in diameter plus an oblong chancel. Scholars of Templar architecture might observe its odd form echoed Jerusalem’s Church of the Holy Sepulchre.

  All remained still that night, as a lone, hooded figure in black robes entered through a compact iron gate beside the information board. It slunk into the shallow depression, where earth once concealed the remains of this ancient place of worship. Headlights appeared on the lane. The monk-like apparition squatted in the excavated dip to avoid drawing attention to itself. Once the vehicle passed by, the figure resumed its activities. It paced around the tiny perimeter where once flint walls with ashlar facings served The Poor Knights of the Temple of Solomon in their devotions.

  At an upright section of the chancel end, not more than a couple of feet high, the figure paused. Moments later, the gentle hiss of an aerosol dominated a lighter sighing of wind through the leaf-heavy boughs above. A spray can moved from right to left, inscribing a jagged shape in red paint across the foundation wall. Its lid clipped back on the cannister which disappeared beneath the robes. In the stillness, marred only by occasional noises from the A20 below, a slow, definite panting arose. The black robes jostled in a rhythm of increasing frequency and vigour. The figure leaned closer with a deep-throated grunt. Something spattered across the fresh painted symbol. A word spoken in a hushed, sibilant rasp seeped out from beneath the hood. “Baphomet.”

  * * *

  Bill Rutherford sauntered towards the three-storey Victorian building that housed his office. He’d endured a restless night of frustration, tossing and turning at the memory of Katie Tomlinson’s obvious subterfuge. That gaze of hers still unsettled him. Dark, violent, faceless figures of rage haunted his dreams. He’d never met Jeff the homeless man, though he’d known
a couple of dozen like him while sleeping rough. His subconscious mind replayed images of that jet of blood spurting from the sedated man’s opened throat. Then those writhing, lustful naked youngsters drinking in his vital release; slurping like nymphs and satyrs as if the taste intoxicated them. When he arose, he’d no appetite for breakfast. Instead, he set off early. There wasn’t much to do at work other than hope for some helpless soul to walk through the door. How many paper darts would he get in the bin today, before home time?

  At the communal entrance door, Bill came to an abrupt halt. Key clasped ready in his hand, he found the portal ajar. Is the landlord moving someone else in? He can’t be decorating. Only if the rent is about to skyrocket. This last thought caused a lump to rise in his throat. When Bill pushed the door further open, he noticed someone had forced the Yale lock. “Great, that’s all I need.” Who in their right mind would burgle a dump like this? It was such a cheap joint, the place didn’t even include an alarm. He took in the door of the empty ground floor office. It remained closed. On the first floor he found a similar lack of disturbance. At a turn in the stairs to the top, his jugular throbbed, and a knot formed in his stomach. Nobody would break in through the front door and leave the internal offices alone. His was the only one left.

  “Oh no.” Bill reached the top floor. The door of ‘Rutherford Private Investigations’ hung wide. Inside, the desk lay empty. Only a dark patch of wood - unbleached by sunlight stabbing through the blinds - indicated where his refurbished laptop once sat. The gits have nicked my computer. That thing wasn’t even worth a hundred quid. It must be desperate druggies. His gaze moved to the filing cabinet behind his chair. The intruders had jimmied the barrel lock. Now the four drawers of the cabinet were slid out in different stages of openness. Papers lay strewn across the dirty wooden floorboards. Bill edged closer to the desk. He knew he shouldn’t touch anything in an ideal world, but what were plod going to do? He’d be lucky to receive a visit, let alone a forensic team dusting for prints. Now close enough to notice his top desk drawer hanging open, he found the ruled pad missing. Next to the spot his laptop once occupied, a faded, yellowed answerphone remained at its usual jaunty angle. A winking red light announced at least one waiting message. Bill pressed ‘Play.’

  The machine clicked. Some heavy breathing sounded for a second, then Philip Stokes’ voice spoke. “Bill? I've no idea when you’ll get this, but Wendy showed up on my doorstep the other day in a furious rage. The police questioned her about that country house you followed her to. Don't ask me how, but the law know you were there. Somehow Wendy found out I’d hired a private investigator. She blew a gasket. Before her rant was over, she warned me I’d be sorry.” His voice cracked. “This morning I got called into my bosses’ office at the hospital. He told me they were letting me go after a management restructure. It’s the first I’d heard about it.” Philip broke down, his voice slurring through sobs of anguish. “She’s taken everything from me, Bill. I can’t go on. I’m sorry, I can-” The message cut off.

  Bill rubbed his eyes. “Shit.” Could this break-in and Philip’s job loss share a connection? Either I’m turning into a conspiracy nut, or I’ve walked into the middle of something far more sinister than one God-awful murder. The law knows Philip hired me and that I visited that house, because I told them when Vicky and I reported our incident. Could they have disclosed that to Wendy Stokes? I’d have thought Tony Quarry had more professionalism than that. He bit his lip, deep in thought. It might have been that dour-faced bird who thought we were both talking out of our arses. His mind wandered to Vicky, while he weighed up the possibilities. If these incidents are connected, she could be in trouble. Either way, if Wendy Stokes knows I was there from our police report, she might also know about Vicky. He fished a mobile phone out of his jacket, fingers brushing against the promotional material with a picture of Jeff he’d yet to remove. Vicky’s number appeared in his contact list and he initiated the call.

  In her office at Social Services, Vicky’s mobile phone vibrated. The name ‘Bill Rutherford’ flashed up on the screen. She connected the call, pressing fingers of her other hand into one ear for better hearing and to keep her voice quiet. “Bill? What’s going on?”

  Suzie Kempston appeared in the open-plan office and dumped her handbag on the desk opposite. Vicky waved and mouthed ‘hello’ while she listened to the voice on the phone. Suzie flopped down into her chair, face already exhausted at the start of a working day.

  Vicky blinked, then spoke in hushed tones. “It’s definitely him? Jeff. Well, now we've unearthed the poor guy’s name. Are you going to take the police that picture? I see. It’s awful. I’m sorry about your computer and office.” She grinned at the phrase ‘It took me a while to realise the entire room had been tossed. I’m not the tidiest person.’ She covered her mouth upon noticing growing interest in Suzie’s facial expressions. “I hope that client of yours is okay. He’s better off without her, however much it hurts. Thanks for the update. We’ll chat later. Bye.” She disconnected.

  Suzie smirked. “Secret lover?”

  Vicky put her phone down on the desk and picked up a steaming mug of coffee. “Because that’s so my style.”

  “What are you up to, Vick? That wasn’t a work call.”

  Vicky shrugged. “Must be private then, mustn’t it?”

  Suzie reclined in her seat. “Fair enough. I’ll shut up.”

  Vicky flinched. “I’m sorry, Suze. I didn’t mean to sound snarky. You know how I don’t like to discuss my past?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, this concerns it. Something that’s crept out of the woodwork, okay?”

  Suzie nodded. “Okay. Listen, if you need someone to talk to, I’m here. I won’t pry. Don’t feel you have to carry everything yourself.”

  “Thanks. Speaking of burdens, are you all right? You look like you’ve run a marathon.”

  Suzie sighed. “It’s my sister. She phoned me first thing. That’s why I’m later than usual.”

  “Family problems?”

  “One of her kids was out playing ball in the back garden before school. He looked across the fence to find their neighbour hanging from a makeshift noose in his living room. They’ve had the police and ambulances out there, ever since.”

  “That’s awful. Did the man…?”

  “Succeed? Yeah. The poor bloke’s wife left him recently. My sister said the woman came round the other night, and the two had a right barney. Then she stormed off again. He returned early from work yesterday. I suppose it all got too much. What a waste.”

  “What did he do for a living?”

  Suzie scratched her head. “Err, some IT executive with the NHS. Quiet. Bit of a computer geek. You know the type. Not that he deserved that, regardless of whether he was ringing her bell or falling short in the trouser department.”

  A contraction of neck muscles - combined with the content of her recent phone call - caused Vicky to cringe. Bill had given away enough tidbits of information during conversation to put two and two together. The voicemail message he mentioned from his client’s wife proved the clincher. She toyed with calling him straight back. Maybe later. There’s a good chance the police will tell him once they look into events surrounding the suicide.

  Bill spent the rest of the day holding the fort at his office while his landlord had the locks changed. Not that there was much left of value on the premises with his cheap, crappy computer missing. The break-in got recorded via the 101 non-emergency line. It pleased the property owner to obtain a crime report number for his insurance claim. Bill knew this would get buried in the ‘No Further Action’ pile. A black hole of ‘we haven’t got the resources to deal with it’ every force in the country used as a data landfill. No question about it. The incident looked like the work of opportunist thieves, desperate for cash. He had no firm evidence to the contrary, other than a sick feeling in his stomach.

  That sick feeling intensified after he crossed the threshold of his rented two-
up, two-down Victorian terraced home. A proverbial bomb site, someone had ransacked the house from top to bottom. Bill found the kitchen door into his rear courtyard garden forced open. He didn’t own many valuables. The TV was missing - a cheap, small screen LED job purchased in an after Christmas supermarket sale. Some cash he kept in a drawer next to his bed had also gone. It appeared your classic burglary. Bill opened a fitted cupboard in the master bedroom, then crouched to examine a red, steel lock box he used to keep backups of important work information. He’d been around enough to realise if a target got wind he was onto them during a job, his office was a prime target. All relevant evidence and notes remained in the lock box until no longer required. Sure enough, the box lid hung back on bust hinges. Several papers were missing and a memory stick of data from his stolen computer had also been taken.

  Bill cupped both hands around his mouth. “If this is pure coincidence, I’ll eat my hat.” His mobile phone vibrated in his back pocket. Bill clocked the name ‘Vicky Lambert’ and picked up the call. “Hey.” It was impossible to disguise the annoyance and frustration in his voice. “Yeah, I’m brassed off. I got home to find my house burgled too.”

  A sharp intake of breath rumbled from the phone speaker.

  Bill listened, then proceeded. “No, my landlord did it via 101. I haven’t taken the picture over to the police station yet. Huh?” Colour drained from his cheeks in a moment that dragged on. “I didn’t call him back. That’s right, he was a health service IT Manager. Where was this? Downswood, yeah, that’s where he lived. Oh God, what a day. I don’t suppose you've the guy’s name? No. Well, how many Health Service IT Managers can live there? It’s not that big an estate. Okay, I’ll try calling his number in case it’s a coincidence. I imagine the police will want a word or two about the work I did for him once my name pops up in their investigation. Thanks for the heads-up, Vicky. Are you all right? Nothing disturbed at home? Good.” He rubbed his neck and squinted. “Listen, I’d better report this and sort out my house. Thanks. Take care. Bye.”