Death Rites

by Wendy Cartmell

  “Douglas, fetch us some teas, would you?”

  “Um,” Douglas mumbled, then catching sight of Crane’s grim face, rapidly nodded his head and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.

  The three men sat down in the bland beige interview room with Crane and Anderson taking up their positions on the other side of the table, opposite Bullock. Crane was just glad to sit on something that wasn’t rocking and rolling around and as Douglas came in with the cups of tea, he shook a pain killer into his palm from a packet in his pocket and swallowed it with a sip of the hot liquid, not caring about the acrid taste of the melting pill.

  Looking over at Bullock he saw a previously proud man who was now a shadow of his former self. His clothes were dishevelled, his hair all over the place, his eyes haunted and a five o’clock shadow adorned his cheeks and chin, although it was only mid-morning. The ginger hairs pushed through skin that was sallow and moulded his face into deep shadows under his now prominent cheek bones. Crane pushed a drink towards Bullock, who reached for it, unable to disguise the trembling of his hand as he raised it to his lips. After he’d taken a mouthful, Bullock returned the cup to the table and put his head in his hands.

  “It seems you have a few problems at the moment, DS Bullock,” Anderson said. “We’d like to talk to you about the abduction of two girls, the murder of one of them and the attempted murder of the other, the murder of Clay and of Mr and Mrs Underwood. Oh, and while we’re at it, where’s Enid?”

  Bullock didn’t answer, just took another drink of his tea.

  “Is this how you’re going to play it? Giving me the silent treatment?”

  Still Bullock refused to answer, turning his head away from Anderson’s questions.

  “I rather think,” said Crane, “that since you arrived in Aldershot from Birmingham, your whole life has begun to unravel.”

  Bullock closed his eyes.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but your domestic situation mustn’t have been that happy, what with Enid at her parent’s house most of the time. Did that bother you, Bullock? That she had more time for them, than she’d ever had for you?”

  “And how on earth did you get mixed up with Clay?” Anderson took up the questioning. “An idiotic petty criminal who couldn’t even cover his tracks. Tracks that led us straight to you.”

  “I bet you wished you’d never seen Aldershot, or even heard of it, don’t you Bullock?” said Crane.

  “You’d have been much happier staying in Birmingham, I bet,” added Anderson.

  Crane noticed that Bullock’s face was working; his eyes blinking rapidly and his jaw moving as though he were his name-sake masticating on grass. Underneath the table, his heel started bouncing up and down. But then he stilled.

  “I want a lawyer or a Police Federation Rep,” Bullock stated.

  “Of course, that’s your right,” said Anderson. “But I thought we were just having a nice chat, colleague to colleague, you know?”

  “I’m not bloody stupid, Anderson, although you always act as though I am. I know how this works. I want my phone call.”

  “Oh, to call Enid?” Crane asked all innocence.

  Bullock stared at Crane, who for a fleeting moment had a glimpse of something dark and terrible in Bullock’s eyes.

  “To call my lawyer,” Bullock reiterated.

  Scraping their chairs across the floor as they stood, Crane and Anderson left the room without another word.

  Outside in the corridor, Anderson asked Crane, “What do you think of him? Has he done all the things we suspect he has?”

  Recalling the look in Bullock’s eyes, Crane said, “He’s capable of it, I’ve no doubt about that.”

  Anderson nodded and said, “I’ll get a search warrant application drawn up for Bullock’s house. Let’s see what we find there and I’ll include his car and Enid’s car.”

  “Will you have trouble getting it?”

  “What, as Bullock’s a police officer you mean? Nah, I know just the judge for this one. Look, why don’t you go home for a rest while we’re waiting for the warrant and I’ll swing round and pick you up on the way to Bullock’s house.”

  “What about interviewing him again?”

  “Nothing doing on that score. It’ll take ages for a solicitor or a Federation Rep to arrive and then he’ll have to have a private meeting with his client and I’d rather start the search before we speak to him again anyway. Go on with you and I’ll make sure you don’t miss anything.”

  “Promise?”

  “Fuck off, Crane,” Anderson said grinning. “I’ll see you later.”

  As Crane hobbled his way out of the station towards the waiting car Anderson had arranged for him, he turned to look at the imposing but ugly grey granite building he’d just come out of. It didn’t really matter if he worked for the police, or the army, he realised. Either way he was catching bad guys, which was what he was good at and loved to do. Especially catching men like Bullock. The look of pure evil he’d glimpsed in the man’s eyes earlier still had the power to send a shiver down his spine.

  65

  Upon Crane and Anderson’s arrival at Bullock’s house, Anderson nodded to the team waiting on the driveway, giving the signal for them to enter the house. Anderson had collected Bullock’s keys on the way out of the station. He hadn’t refused to give them to Anderson who had a legitimate search warrant, as it saved damage to his house and car. Bullock was still stewing on his own in the interview room, his solicitor apparently busy elsewhere, but promising to get to the police station as soon as he could. Anderson didn’t know what was delaying the man, but the fact that he was being asked to represent a potentially bent copper maybe had something to do with it. Either way, Bullock didn’t seem impressed and was looking more and more like a pressure cooker about to blow. Not wanting to place Bullock in the cells, Anderson had left him in a locked interview room with a policeman posted at the door for good measure.

  As the forensic team swept into the house and fanned out, Crane and Anderson stood in the hallway for a moment, plastic suited with latex gloves on their hands and paper bootees over their shoes.

  “I think it was a bit much having to wrap a paper bootee over my stick,” grumbled Crane. “I look like a right dick.”

  “Procedure, Crane. I don’t want to give Bullock’s brief or Federation rep any cause for throwing out evidence that could have potentially been brought in on your stick. Anyway you could have left it in the car.”

  “Hmm, maybe next time,” said Crane increasing the pressure on his stick slightly. He was beginning to wonder if his reliance on it was becoming more mental than physical, but pushed the thought away for consideration another day. When he wasn’t in as much pain. When he wasn’t so busy. When he wasn’t so tired. When…

  “Up here, guv. Found his office.”

  “Out here, boss,” called another officer. “Got something in the garden.”

  Looking at the stairs, then back at his friend, Anderson said, “I’ll go up, you go outside.”

  Relieved, Crane did as he was ordered and met a Forensic Officer outside on the patio who pushed his hood off his head and his mask off his face at Crane’s approach, to reveal a young woman, startling Crane who had been expecting a man. “It’s alright, sir,” she grinned at the look on Crane’s face. “I get that reaction a lot. These suits make us look pretty androgynous.”

  “No offence, meant,” said Crane, being chivalrous for once.

  “None taken. Just wanted to show you this, sir,” and she pointed to a garden spade and fork, propped up against the wall of the house. Both were covered in muddy soil. There were tracks in the grass leading to a freshly turned flower bed up against the far fence.

  “Shit,” breathed Crane. Taking a few steps to the end of the patio, he looked carefully at the grass without stepping on it. “Looks like there are two sets of tracks,” he said. “One ridged as though he’d dragged the fork behind him as he walked and one flatter and broader as though he’d
dragged something else. The spade maybe?”

  “Don’t think so, sir, the depressed grass is much wider than the spade in places and also I’d say that whatever it was it was a lot heavier than a spade.”

  “Enid.”

  “Sir? My name’s Frankie.”

  “Enid is DS Bullocks’ wife’s name.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “Unfortunately, so do I. Thanks, Frankie, I’ll let DI Anderson know. That’ll be all for now. Carry on.”

  It was only when Frankie gave him a strange look, did Crane realise he’d slipped back into army speak. Shit he’d just addressed the young forensic scientist as though she were one of his soldiers. Flame-faced, he mumbled an apology and turned away, going back into the house to find Anderson. They met at the bottom of the stairs.

  “I think we’ve found Enid,” Crane said.

  “And I think we’ve found the place where the girls were held. But you first.”

  Crane explained about the findings in the garden, but left out the part about his chauvinist gaff of expecting a man rather than a woman, and then the one where he’d addressed her as if she were one of his soldiers.

  “I was afraid we might find Enid buried in the garden,” said Anderson and Crane agreed with him.

  “So, what have you got?”

  Anderson said, “A farmhouse, in the countryside, in Enid’s name.”

  “Great. Any idea where it is?”

  “Yes, out beyond Ash Ranges and the title deeds came with an explanatory map, thank goodness. I’ve made a rough copy of it, so if you’re ready, let’s go and find it.”

  66

  Crane and Anderson, once more dressed in crime scene suits, stood silently staring at the farmhouse before them. Decrepit and aging, the house seemed to sag on its foundations, the drunken walls bowing out under the weight of the roof. The roof itself was missing more than its fair share of tiles and the chimney canted to the left, surrounded by a scattering of broken bricks. Around the structure wove a wooden verandah, again showing signs of age, with rotting timbers punctuating the once strong walkway. The grass around the house was churned in places, and there were tracks caused by vehicles driving in and out of the clearing. Crows cawed in the treetops high above them, their sudden flight making Crane jump.

  “Wow,” said Anderson.

  “Holy fuck,” said Crane, being of an altogether coarser breed of men. “Do you think it’s locked up?”

  “I shouldn’t think there’s any need,” said Anderson pointing to the many broken panes of glass in the windows. “Come on, let’s try the door first though.”

  The timbers creaked as they mounted the steps of the verandah, matching the creak of their leather shoes, with Crane’s bootee-covered stick providing an uneven, muffled beat as an accompaniment. Anderson had insisted they suit up before going in, as should it be a crime scene, he once again didn’t want any margin for error. Anderson pushed open the unlocked door which made the old rusted hinges creak.

  “Straight out of a Hammer Horror movie,” said Anderson showing his age, as he surveyed the large open room before them. It appeared that smaller rooms had had their dividing walls taken down, from the marks on the ceilings and corresponding ones on the floor, opening up the space to encompass the whole footfall of the house. Everywhere Crane looked there was evidence of Satanic rituals. The walls were adorned with signs and symbols. Black robes were incongruously hung on hooks around the walls, reminiscent of a classroom cloakroom, and in the middle of the room was a large structure, covered in black material, which was clearly an altar. A clutch of black candles adorned the top, with a solitary white one in their midst.

  “The movies used props to create something like this,” said Crane. “But these aren’t props, they’re for real.” Crane spied a set of stairs. “Seems there’s a basement,” he said and he pointed to a set of stairs descending into inky blackness.

  Moving over to take a closer look, Anderson said, “They’re very steep and some of the treads are rotten. Stay here, it’s safer.”

  “But,”

  “But nothing, Crane. I don’t want you breaking your bloody neck as well as your hip. You’ll be no good to me then, will you?”

  As Anderson inched his way down the stairs, the light of his torch bouncing with every step, Crane had to take deep breaths to contain his frustration. He wanted nothing more than to go down and see for himself.

  As Anderson reached the bottom, Crane shouted, “Anything?”

  “Just a minute, man.”

  Anderson’s torch moved out of Crane’s sight, leaving a thick blackness behind that Crane’s eyes couldn’t penetrate. Not the most patient of men, Crane blurted, “Derek?” and was rewarded with the rustling of Anderson’s suit as he walked back to the stairs.

  “Nothing. There’s no one here, just an empty cell where the girls must have been kept.”

  “Thank God there wasn’t another one down there,” said Crane as Anderson emerged from the basement.

  “Let’s get out of here and call for forensics before we do any more damage to the crime scene.”

  As Crane peeled off his suit by the car, Anderson spoke to the team at Bullock’s house, requesting additional personnel come to the house in the woods.

  “We’re a bit busy here, DI Anderson,” the supervisor of the forensics team said. “I can’t spare anyone at the moment.” Crane heard through the speaker on the mobile.

  “Why?” Anderson sounded none too pleased.

  “Because we’ve found a body buried in the garden. We think it’s his wife. So now we’ve to process out here as well as indoors.”

  “Well someone will have to come and secure the scene while we wait for you. I’ll get some uniforms up here. Just be as quick as you can will you?” and Anderson snapped shut the phone.

  Crane peeled his bootees off. “I can do it,” he said.

  “Do what?”

  “I’m trained in forensics and evidence gathering. I can easily get Tina to bring my case up.”

  “But that was in the army, not here in the civilian world.”

  “Why is that different?”

  “Because you’re not accredited.”

  “I am as far as the Army’s concerned. I’ve done the courses. Taken the examinations. All the army investigators are trained to collect forensic evidence to save waiting at crime scenes for a specialist to turn up. Just like now.”

  “I know. I understand what you’re saying. But you’d have to do additional training in order to collect forensic evidence for the police. We’ll have to wait. It’s-”

  “Procedure, yes I know,” Crane cut in. “For fuck’s sake,” and he threw his stick on the ground in a fit of pique and then had to pick it up again in order to walk off in a huff, making Anderson laugh and Crane growl.

  67

  Once released from protecting the old house, by two uniformed officers, Crane and Anderson returned to the police station to review the forensic evidence that had been gathered so far, to see what tied the cases to DS Bullock.

  Crane, who had calmed down somewhat, looked up from his reading of the reports. “What do you think they did out at that old house?”

  “Christ knows. In fact I don’t think I want to know,” said Anderson.

  “Do you think it really is the scene of a full blown Satanic cult, or sect, or grotto, whatever you want to call it?”

  “Well, it all looked quite genuine.”

  “Oh, so you’re a specialist on the occult are you now?” Crane laughed.

  “You know what I mean. The signs, symbols and those Rules of the Earth that you found on the internet, were all painted on the walls. There were gowns and hoods for them to wear. Black candles on the altar, so I guess so.”

  “I wonder what they did?”

  “Well I don’t,” snapped Anderson. “Can we get on with reading about what we do know, instead of speculating about what we don’t?”

  “Sure, sorry,” Crane bent his head once more to the
report, but then said, “I think we need a list.”

  “What? For Christ’s sake, Crane, leave me alone.”

  “Alright,” Crane said and stood and went over to the whiteboard, where he cleaned a portion of it and began to write.

  He hadn’t got very far when Anderson said, “Okay you win. What’s that all about?”

  Trying very hard not to grin, Crane revealed his bullet points. “These are things we need to interview Bullock about. I just needed to get it all straight in my head as there are so many possible charges.”

  “Go on then, let’s go through them.”

  Grabbing his stick Crane pointed to the first line. “In no particular order, we need to talk to Bullock about:

  1. Enid Bullock. She’s been found dead, buried in the garden. His garden. A fork and spade were in clear view on the patio, covered in earth and his finger prints. The working theory at the moment is that she was strangled as upon initial examination Major Martin can find no other injuries, only bruising around her neck. It seems she’s been dead for a few days. The Major will know more at the autopsy.

  2. Mr and Mrs Underwood. They were found dead in their bed when their house was burned down. Petrol was the accelerant and the post mortem revealed they were alive when the fire started. DS Bullock was seen purchasing petrol the night of the fire at the local petrol station. We expect a forensic examination of his car will provide us with evidence of petrol inside it and possibly ash from the blaze. We may even find hairs on his suit from the old people.

  3. The farmhouse. There is evidence of Satanic rituals taking place there and evidence of the girls being held captive in the basement. We’ll know more when the forensics come in, but I bet Bullock’s, Clay’s and the girls’ fingerprints will be found there.