Death Rites

by Wendy Cartmell

  “Clay,” he hissed.

  “Hey, what are you doing here? Want a pint?”

  “No I don’t want a bloody pint,” Bullock grabbed Clay’s arm. “We need to talk,” and he pulled Clay into the toilets, which was a place he’d visited far too often for his liking recently.

  “What’s with the tattoo?”

  “Oh, you heard about that did you? Well, you had one and so I thought I’d get one too, as I’m your assistant like. Want to see it?” and Clay started to pull off his top.

  “No I don’t want to bloody see it,” said Bullock, ignoring the disappointment on Clay’s face.

  “Well, I suppose it does just look like a big scab at the moment, but it’ll be great once that’s fallen off.”

  Bullock stood and stared at Clay. What had he been thinking when he’d decided to use Clay as a general dogsbody? The man was nothing but a bloody idiot. A liability.

  “You have not the faintest idea about keeping things quiet have you? Who’ve you been blabbing to? What did you tell them at the tattoo shop?”

  “Now look here, I’ve not blabbed. I never told them nothing!”

  “No, but you got that tattoo and now the police have got you.”

  “Police? Why? How?”

  “Because the tattoo artist recognised the symbol and reported you to the police. They’ve got your address and your phone number.”

  Clay pulled out his mobile and looked at it in consternation. Then his face brightened. “I used my old address, not my new one. See, boss, I was thinking, eh?” and he prodded at his temple with his finger.

  “Look, trust me, you’ve got to go into hiding. Go to Tesco or somewhere, buy a burner phone and some supplies and then get your arse out of sight.”

  Clay’s eyes filled with tears. “Where should I go? Are the police really after me? I didn’t mean any of it. Those girls, they were an accident. I didn’t do it on purpose. Maybe they’ll understand once I tell them…”

  “Shut the fuck up!” Bullock shouted. “You’re not to talk to anyone, especially the police, do you hear me?”

  “Yes. Sorry.” But Clay still seemed uncertain. “I don’t know where to go, where shall I go?”

  Bullock thought for a moment, trying to calm his temper as well as his stomach, which had started to churn once more at the smell of the none too clean toilets.

  “I know. That car park in Farnborough. The one that no cars can get into. Do you know where I mean?”

  “Yeah, on top of the shopping centre.”

  “Well go up there and find yourself a nice quiet corner. Once you’re settled send me a blank text so I know your new number, oh and dispose of your old one.”

  “Dispose of it?”

  “Yes. For God’s sake, Clay, wake up will you. They can trace you with that one. Look, let’s do it now shall we? And take this card, it’s got my mobile number on it so you can text me later.”

  Bullock grabbed Clay’s phone, threw it on the ground and then stamped on it for good measure. The back had fallen off and the battery had come out of its housing, exposing the sim card. Bullock reached down and picked that up, breaking the card in half and dropping it and the remains of the phone in the bin.

  “Right, off you go, get a new phone and some supplies and hide out in the car park. Find a nice quiet dark corner. Alright?” Bullock felt he needed to repeat the instructions.

  Clay nodded.

  “Go on then, we shouldn’t be seen leaving together. I’ll talk to you later,” and Bullock physically pushed Clay out of the door, before rushing into a cubicle and slamming the door behind him.

  37

  Anderson was grabbing his faithful beige raincoat when DC Douglas appeared at the door.

  “You wanted me, guv?”

  “Yes,” Anderson said shrugging into his coat. “Crane and I are going to Clay Underwood’s address and I want you to stay here and see if he’s got a record. If not, he may have been called into the station for questioning, or been a witness. Anything. Whatever it is, find it for me. Okay?”

  “Yes, guv.”

  “Oh and Douglas?”

  “Guv?”

  “Where the hell is DS Bullock?”

  “Sorry, I don’t know. He just said he had something to do and it couldn’t wait.”

  DC Douglas slipped out of the door and Anderson turned to Crane. “Bloody man’s never where he’s supposed to be. Oh well, I’ll deal with him later. You ready?”

  “Yes,” replied Crane, but he wasn’t at all sure that he was.

  His leg was playing up big time now and he was afraid it was going to collapse under him. He was gripping his stick, hoping it would save him should his leg buckle. He was desperate to hide his problems from Derek. As a soldier, he’d always been urged to give his best, go to the limit and beyond, and therefore it was hard for him to admit when enough was enough. Crane always wanted to go through the physical pain barrier and come out the other side - but this was no race or exercise on the Brecon Beacons. This was Aldershot town and the reality was that if he pushed himself too hard he could do permanent damage to his leg and hip. As he clumped behind Derek towards the car, he realised he might have to say something soon. But not just yet.

  Arriving at the block of maisonettes in Farnborough, Crane and Anderson wound their way through the maze of properties, following the signs until they reached the one they wanted. The door was a flimsy looking affair and when Anderson rapped on it, it sounded hollow. Looking around Crane couldn’t see any CCTV cameras, just row upon row of sky TV antennas. They heard a shuffling behind the door and the rattle of a chain, before a man poked his head through a small gap.

  “Yes?”

  “DI Anderson, Aldershot Police,” Derek flipped his ID open. “We’re looking for Clay Underwood.”

  “Never heard of him,” and the man went to close the door.

  “Not so fast,” said Anderson, putting his foot in the way to stop the man closing the door. “I suggest you let us in. We’re investigating a murder and I’m sure you don’t want to be charged with obstructing the course of justice, or even become a suspect.”

  Crane grinned at the look of fright on the man’s face. He had to admit he loved the feeling of power that a badge brought. The chain was quickly taken off the door and the inhabitant of the flat turned and ran back into his den.

  The man stood before them in the small, cramped room, which was dominated by a television and stunk of stale cigarette smoke and unwashed clothes.

  “Who are you?”

  “John Smith.”

  Crane spluttered and said, “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Let me see some ID, then.”

  At Crane’s request, the man grabbed a wallet off a small table and took out his driving licence, handing it over.

  “Here, Anderson, he really is called John Smith,” Crane grinned.

  “Well, John Smith,” said Anderson, “we’re looking for Clay Underwood. We understood he was living at this address.”

  “Never heard of him,” Smith said. “I’ve been here three years. He might have had the flat before me.”

  “Any idea where he went,” Anderson sighed.

  “Why would I know? What am I, his personal assistant?”

  At a glare and a threatening step forward from Crane, Smith quickly said, “Sorry. Look, this is a housing association place and there was no sign of any previous tenant when I moved in here.”

  Anderson walked to the door of the small filthy living room. “You don’t mind me looking around do you? Seeing as how you’ve nothing to hide.”

  Mr Smith glanced at Crane, who was still glaring at him, and then at Anderson, and shook his head. “Help yourself,” he said and then shook a cigarette out of the packet he grabbed off the table. “I’d give you one, but I’m a bit broke, you know?” he said to Crane.

  “Nah, you’re alright, I’ve given up.”

  Anderson returned, saying to Crane, “He’s right, there’s no one
else here. Mr Smith I want the details of the Housing Association you rent from please.”

  Smith shuffled papers in a cabinet that looked like it was about to collapse and drew one out. Anderson copied out the details and then took a photo of it on his mobile before they left.

  Walking to the car, Anderson pulled out his phone and called Douglas. “That’s an old address for Clay Underwood, have you come up with anything?”

  Crane could hear Douglas’ voice as Derek had him on speaker.

  “No, sorry, guv, I’ve not found anything. He seems to be clean. Not even a parking ticket. Which, I guess doesn’t help us at all.”

  “Exactly, it doesn’t.”

  Anderson ended the call and put the phone back in his pocket, and the two men walked back through the buildings.

  By now Crane was limping badly. He was having trouble walking back to the car, the pain making him wince. Well more than wince, more like a grimace. He was trying to hide the problems with his leg from Derek and was doing so quite successfully he thought, until he tripped over a tuft of grass of all things and would have fallen if Derek hadn’t grabbed him in time.

  “I think you should call it a day,” Derek said.

  Trying to regain his composure, Crane straightened his suit jacket and said, “No, you’re all right. I’m fine.”

  Anderson laughed. “Fine, eh. That’s why you look so bloody awful is it? I’d hate to look like that if I was feeling fine.”

  Crane had to smile. “Well, maybe fine wasn’t the best description.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “To be honest, go home. My head doesn’t want to, but the body is screaming otherwise.”

  “Eminently sensible. Home it is and I’ll bring you up to date when I collect you first thing tomorrow. But to be honest I don’t really expect us to be anywhere other than where we are now. Bloody nowhere. ”

  38

  Crane was already at home, lying on the settee to rest his leg and hip and not really watching the television that flickered away in the corner of the room, when Tina arrived back home with Daniel.

  “Hey you,” she smiled and kissed him. “What’s this then, half day?”

  “Forced upon me, I’m afraid,” he said, indicating his leg and trying his best not to sound as pissed off as he felt. After all, none of this was Tina’s fault.

  “Oh, poor you. Have you taken your pills?”

  He nodded his agreement.

  “Sure?” she leaned down to look at his face. Tina was well aware that sometimes he didn’t take them all.

  “Definitely.”

  “Shit. In that case it’s got to be bad. Just let me sort Daniel out and then I’ll make us a cuppa.”

  Crane listened to his wife and son chattering away to each other in the kitchen and not for the first time since his accident, felt left out. If he did try and join them, by the time he’d managed to get himself to the kitchen, Daniel would be going upstairs, or out in the garden and Crane would have missed the moment. Resting in the lounge he felt isolated from his family and he also felt isolated from the team at the police station and from the investigation.

  Before the accident he would have become angry with the constraints placed upon him and rant and rave in his frustration. But now his enemy wasn’t anger, but fear of being left out, which in turn led to depression. He’d spent months convalescing and waiting for the chance to be part of life again. And now he had that chance, sort of. Would his injuries take that chance away? Rip out his fragile equilibrium and leave him spiralling down into the darkness?

  He was still brooding when Tina came back into the room, carrying his mug of tea.

  “There you go, super dad,” she said, alluding to the mug which Daniel had given him for Father’s Day.

  “I’m not very super at the moment,” Crane grumbled.

  “Oh God, one of those days is it? Come on then, spit it out.” She sat on the floor, facing him, leaning against the settee he was lying on.

  “You don’t want to listen to my moaning,” he said.

  “Yes I do. Now spill.”

  “It’s just that… well… look… how am I supposed to live with this?” he eventually spat out. “Derek had to bring me back early today because my leg kept buckling and my hip is killing me. I tripped over a tuft of grass of all things. Fat lot of use I am to the team.”

  “Oh, your injuries will take time to heal, Tom. You know they will.”

  “Well we haven’t got much time. We have to find these bastards before another girl is taken. How will I feel if another young girl goes missing or is found dead and I’ve not been able to work properly because of this bloody stupid leg? How am I supposed to live with that?” he ended up shouting.

  “Why would they want one?”

  “Sorry?” Crane tried to calm himself down by taking sips of his hot tea.

  “Why would they want another girl? Or come to that why did they want the first two?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, weren’t you looking at a Satanic angle?”

  “I know what you’re doing,” Crane said, narrowing his eyes at her. “You’re just trying to take my mind off the pain.”

  “No I’m not,” Tina looked horrified. “I’m interested, Tom, I always have been interested in your work.”

  “Oh, alright then,” and he told her about the Satanic rituals and his theory that they’d wanted the children for a Satanic baptism and then intended to keep them and bring them up in the Satanic Church. “I don’t think they want to hurt or abuse the kids, as it’s not part of their ethos, strangely enough.”

  “Have you talked to Anderson about this?”

  “Sort of. He told me to go away and look at that angle, but on my own time and I mustn’t tell anyone. Not even…”

  Tina laughed. “Not even me?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “And have you?”

  “Have I what?”

  “Done some more research.”

  Crane saw where she was going. “No I’ve not.”

  “Well then maybe you should,” she said and stood to take their mugs back into the kitchen.

  As he watched her walk away, a grin started to form, hesitantly at first, until he was smiling widely. When she returned he said, “Perhaps I should just take a look on the internet again tonight. You know, before I go in tomorrow. What do you think?”

  “I think it’s a very good idea.”

  39

  Bullock walked into the house and literally collapsed from the stress and pressure. He leaned against the tiny hall wall, holding himself up on the side table with one hand and with the other fumbled for his keys and phone. He dropped them onto the table and then dropped to the floor. Putting his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, he groaned.

  What the hell was he to do? They’d named the girl who’d escaped from them as Bethany somebody or other. Which was all very fine and dandy, but what would happen when she started to remember things? Which she might well do after she was re-united with her parents. Could she identify him? Or Clay? Or both? Did they have their hoods on at all times when they were with her? He just didn’t know. He couldn’t remember no matter how hard he tried. He wanted to tip on his side onto the floor, roll up into a ball and never have to face the world again. His head was hurting with all the questions that had no answers and his body felt like he’d been repeatedly kicked all over, by large, muscular, hooligans, wearing steel toe-capped boots.

  The other biggie was the fact that Clay had been identified. He couldn’t believe the stupidity of his so called ‘second in command’. The only thing Clay was in command of was creating chaos. Fancy going to get a bloody tattoo. The bloke was just plain bonkers. He had absolutely no idea of the wider picture. He couldn’t see any further than the end of his nose. He was becoming more and more of a liability and Bullock was frightened of what Clay would cock-up next. He’d have to come up with a strategy to keep Clay under control.

/>   He pushed himself up off the floor and went towards the kitchen where Enid was making as much noise as she possibly could, whilst she did what was loosely termed as cooking. Anyone who’d come to dinner and had to eat her food, never came back. The smell permeating the hall from the kitchen wasn’t at all enticing, reminding him more of gone off chicken than what he supposed was her chicken casserole. After all it was Thursday. These days she made huge pots of the stuff so she could feed her parents as well as them. The aroma was making him feel sick, or was it his fear? He ran his hand over his cheeks and chin, a kind of girding of the loins before he entered the lion’s den.

  “Hi,” he managed to say, walking over to the fridge and pulling out a bottle of beer.

  “Oh, it’s you,” she said making Bullock wonder who else it might have been.

  There was no, ‘how are you?’ or ‘have you had a good day?’ just indifference. To be honest he felt the same about her. But it would have been nice to talk to her about his day, explain the pressure he was under; tell her about Anderson picking on him, about how he was having difficulty becoming an accepted member of the team, how he wished they’d never moved, that Clay was nothing but a giant fuck-up, how two young girls threatened to bring him down and expose his predilections and that shortly he was going to be the laughing stock of the Satanic world.

  “Dinner will be a bit late,” she said. “I’ve got problems with mum and dad again. Dad fell over the stoop going into the garden, for goodness sake! So I’ve been to the hospital with him. But first I had to get someone to sit with mum. Then we had to wait for hours once we got there, just for a few bloody stitches. But, obviously, they were concerned about concussion, so I’ve got to keep an eye on him and I’m not supposed to leave him on his own. That means that after I’ve made this, I’m going back there tonight, just to make sure, you know?”

  Bullock didn’t reply. He didn’t deem that one was necessary. She didn’t really want him to anyway. She was just talking on and on, oblivious as to whether he was listening or not. And, of course, she was talking about her parents. As usual. They were all she ever talked about, all of the time. Looking after them, and then talking about them, was her life.