by M B Vincent
‘Gives?’ Jess smiled. ‘Gave, surely. Thor died a long time ago. Oh no, hang on.’ She turned to Eden. ‘Thor never existed, did he?’
Norris stood up abruptly.
Jess and Eden’s chairs slammed back. The man opposite them was square and meaty.
‘Norris, this isn’t—’ began Eden. He stopped when he realised that Norris was pulling at his own clothes. ‘Stop it, man,’ he said.
But the man persisted. The white polyester ripped across his chest and he flung it away. Norris puffed out his chest and growled, ‘Here! Here’s Thor! He’ll never be dead!’
A tattoo of a lightning bolt tore across his breast. ‘THOR,’ it read, in large red letters.
‘Norris, take your seat.’ Eden was understated, as if Norris had shown them a picture of a puppy.
Norris complied. He was panting.
Hoping he couldn’t sense how her pulse galloped, Jess said, ‘Women of Thor’s time wore amulets like yours for protection. Thor wasn’t just the strongest of the gods, he was the protector of those weaker than him.’
‘You can’t apply modern principles to gods,’ said Norris dismissively. ‘Thor also smashed giants to bits for laughing at him, plus he had a nice sideline in killing elves.’
That was true. Jess had been bested.
Eden clicked his pen. It brought a full stop to all the talk of Norse deities. ‘We’re here to discuss last night. Look at it from my point of view, Norris. You have plenty of reason to hate Heap for his testimony at your trial. You’re known for settling scores with violence. You come out of prison and within hours Heap is dead. You offer no alibi. You’re squarely in the frame. Why don’t you tell me why I should let you go?’
Norris didn’t get to answer because what Jess’s mother would have termed a brouhaha broke out beyond the closed door.
‘Let me see my boy!’ shrieked a female voice.
There was a crash. A bang.
That voice again, intermittent as if the owner was grappling with somebody. ‘You’ve always had it in for the Roma!’
Norris winced. His head went a shiny, rather pretty, pink.
The shouting carried on. ‘Let me see my Stevie! You framed him once. Isn’t that enough?’
Eden got to his feet. ‘Interview suspended at twenty-three minutes past eight.’ He let Jess leave the room first. ‘Norris, stay put.’
Out in the corridor, two uniformed officers hung onto a bulky woman. They puffed and heaved, as she stood and struggled. It was magnificent, like a rhino shaking off a couple of ticks.
‘Abonda Norris!’ barked Eden. ‘Control yourself.’
So that was Abonda Norris. Jess was aware of her reputation but had never seen her. She shivered. Here was a real live witch.
Abonda’s jowls were framed by unruly hair. A forest of bangles jangled on her arms. She was sloppy, in jumble sale attire. But she held her head high and looked down at them all.
‘He was with me.’ Abonda was loud and adamant. ‘Watching telly. All night.’
‘She’d never get past the desk at Richleigh.’ Moretti, behind Jess, was deep into the tiny screen on his phone.
Eden approached the dragon. ‘He’s just helping us with our enquiries, Mrs Norris.’
‘Don’t be trying your tricks on Abonda.’
‘No tricks. Just questions.’
‘You’ll be hung out to dry when Abonda’s finished with you.’
‘You’re no stranger to the art of the alibi, Abonda. I understand you claimed to be home with your son the night Louise Mannix was raped. Until you changed your story and said she invited him in.’
Moretti handed his phone to Eden. ‘I think you should take a look at this, sir.’
In the background of one of the Heap family snaps was an out-of-focus Abonda. ‘Casting spells at kids’ Halloween parties now, are you, Abonda?’
‘Ain’t no crime to eat a banana split. I like the Jolly Cook.’
The woman’s irreverence tickled Jess. And yet she found herself hoping the woman’s eye didn’t land on her. There was a crackling halo of energy around her. Like lightning.
Abonda wasn’t finished. ‘Weren’t much of a party for the little Heap boy. His git of a father wouldn’t let him have no fun.’ She rounded on Eden again. ‘I’m telling you, me and my Stevie sat in and watched Gogglebox.’
Eden looked at the floor. Then he said, ‘Look, take your son home, Abonda. For now. Keep him out of trouble. And yourself.’
Abonda looked on, satisfied, as Norris was signed out.
‘You know she’s a witch, Sarge?’ whispered Knott urgently. ‘She put a curse on some woman in the town and sent her blind.’
Eden turned on his heel. ‘Jess, my office!’ he called.
As Norris passed Jess, he stopped to say, in a sandpaper undertone, ‘You’re Castle’s daughter, aren’t you? I’m looking forward to bumping into him again. Must be an old fella by now. Keep an eye on him, darlin’.’
Jess hoped her face looked defiant, withering. She suspected it looked scared.
‘Come on, Frigga,’ said Norris to his mother. ‘Stop showing me up.’
*
As soon as she sat down, Eden asked, ‘What do you make of Moretti?’
‘Bit cocky. Full of ideas. I assume you have a deep hatred for the amount of gel in his hair.’
Eden winced, as if she’d cut him. ‘And the shoes, dear God, the shoes. Why do young men wear such pointed shoes?’
‘Yoof, innit,’ said Jess. She took in what there was to take in. The office was a barren place at first glance. Actually, it was a barren place at second glance. DS John Eden didn’t give much away. Magnolia walls. A framed certificate for something or other. A pot plant that was always healthy but never bloomed.
On his desk sat another frame. More ornate, top of the range John Lewis. It didn’t contain the statutory smiley wife and cheeky kids. Instead, a pug stared out at the pristine blotter and the good pen Eden always kept to hand.
‘Moretti’s on the fast track to promotion. He’s Phillips’s nephew.’
‘I see.’ That changed things. DI Phillips saw only the surface of Eden. He didn’t appreciate the fine mind nor the decency nor the quiet passion. A man who craved results, Phillips was the wrong boss for a man like Eden.
‘He could be a spy of some sort.’ Eden and Jess both knew that Phillips deeply disapproved of Jess’s involvement in police work. ‘He could be after my job.’
‘Give him a chance.’ Jess liked Moretti; he was a pinch of spice in the station’s recipe. ‘Anyway, it’s good to be back.’ Her smile, not quite a rarity but not commonplace either, took years off Jess.
‘Back?’ Eden frowned. ‘You’re not back. You’re . . .’ He couldn’t seem to describe what she was.
But Jess knew. I’m bloody well back, she told herself.
‘So’. Eden got down to business. ‘Norris identifies with this Thor, when in reality the man’s a two-bit thug. History of violence as long as your arm, he raped a woman called Louise Mannix in her home while her twin boys slept in the next room. She managed to run next door to the Heaps when Norris left. The sooner we can get Norris back inside, the better. Tell me everything you know about him. I intend to wrap this up quickly. No re-runs of the summer.’
Too many people had died before they cracked the crucifixion killer case. Jess knew each name was etched on Eden’s psyche.
Jess talked about Thor. As if he was an old friend. As if she’d been to parties with him and knew his foibles. Sometimes the old gods were more real to Jess than people.
Who said that to me? It was Rupert who’d said it, and he hadn’t been joking. She pushed the thought away.
‘Thor’s one of the major Norse gods. His thing is strength. The guy is built. He defeats sea serpents, he smashes his way through mountains. When he puts on his special belt, his strength is doubled. Besides all that, he controls storms, so he can aim lightning bolts at his enemies, and whistle up thunder, and the wind. We still
talk about him today, every week; Thursday is Thor’s Day.’
‘And that stupid hammer Norris wears around his neck?’
‘Stupid? That hammer’s mystical. When Thor throws it, it always comes back to his hand. Usually after it’s killed half a dozen baddies.’
‘Thor sounds like a baddie to me.’
‘Yeah, but . . .’ Jess tried to explain how the Vikings didn’t pigeonhole their gods. ‘Thor had human failings. There were no straightforward good guys, no out and out villains. Makes a lot more sense, if you think about it.’ She liked the old religions’ honesty. ‘Thor protected mankind, but if you got on his wick,’ Jess mimed Mjolnir smashing the table, ‘look out.’
‘And this is what Norris studied while he was seething in jail,’ said Eden. ‘I wanted to hang onto him overnight at least, but Abonda always comes up trumps for her boy. Not that she gets any thanks for it. What did he call her? It sounded rude.’
‘Frigga isn’t rude. It’s the name of Thor’s mother. She was a giantess, very powerful and magical in her own right.’
‘Sounds about right for Abonda.’ Eden was scribbling notes. ‘She made a pariah of herself by pretending to be a witch. People stay away from her.’
‘It’s not fair. What’s a witch except a wise woman? All through history witches have been scorned when really we’re all just frightened of their knowledge.’
Eden raised an eyebrow. Just one. But it was eloquent. ‘What were you both quoting in there? Sounded like pop song lyrics to me.’
‘It’s called The Edda, a long Norse poem about the gods. Thor, Odin, Loki, all those beefcake long-haired guys. All those Marvel films, they’re basically a reworking of The Edda. Originally written in Icelandic.’ Jess couldn’t resist the opportunity to show off in front of Eden. ‘Hljoos bio eg allar, helgar kinder—’
The phone rang. Eden snatched it up.
Jess kept to herself the more fanciful stuff about Frigga. The shapeshifting. Thor’s mother could transform herself into a falcon, sleek and deadly, using the falcon feather she traditionally kept on her person at all times.
The phone was banged down. ‘Right. I have to be somewhere. They’ve found the entrails.’ Eden stopped himself. ‘Denis Heap’s entrails, that is.’ He was quick to condemn his team if they didn’t use victims’ proper names. The viscera were human and had to be respected.
He was beside his car before he realised Jess was still with him. ‘No,’ he said.
‘Please,’ she said.
‘Jess, you’re not part of the team.’
That stung. She ignored it. ‘This is my area. Entrails. Ritual.’
A pause. Then ‘Get in’.
Jess got in.
***
The pristine Ford Focus hummed along. It would take more than murder most foul to make John Eden exceed the speed limit. They took Castle Street and left Castle Kidbury in the direction of Blackdown Woods. Jess had never liked the way the road was so suddenly enveloped by the woods. Shapes reached out through the fog, as if trying to swipe the car off the road. If sitting in silence with John Eden wasn’t fun, at least it felt safe.
It certainly beat prepping her next tutorial. She would have to stay up late, but none of that mattered. Nothing mattered except the imperative to find out, to best the killer, to stop him or her in their tracks.
‘I’ve missed Knott,’ said Jess. ‘How are her mother’s legs?’
Knott’s mother’s legs were famous.
‘No better,’ replied Eden. ‘She thinks the left one has shrunk.’
Jess hooted and caught a glimpse of that rarest of natural phenomena. John Eden was laughing.
They turned at a peeling wooden sign.
‘Hungry Hill Farm,’ read Jess.
A couple of centuries dropped away. There was no light ahead, no streetlamps visible. The darkness had texture, layer upon layer of night. In the hedgerows that flashed past, tiny lives were being lived. Tiny creatures such as the one that had sacrificed its heart so it could be laid on Jess’s doorstep.
A cloud moved. The moon awoke. In the silver light Jess saw a shape, elegant and sharp, swoop with its claws outstretched.
A falcon. She hadn’t realised they hunted by night.
CHAPTER 3
HUNGRY HILL
Still Sunday 1 November
Artificial light made sudden daytime of the darkness up ahead.
‘Looks like the crew are there ahead of us.’ Eden parked and opened up the boot.
‘But of course you have wellies and rainwear in the boot,’ said Jess.
‘Doesn’t everybody?’ Eden offered her a padded jacket but she shook her head. ‘The owner of the farm called us in. Said his kids had found a heap of potentially human remains.’
‘Who lives here now? Didn’t old Mrs Dalton die?’ Jess trudged upwards alongside Eden, like pilgrims drawn by the unearthly light at the top of the muddy slope.
A figure inserted itself between them. A small, resentful figure in a hi-vis jacket. ‘Mrs Dalton left the farm to her grandson. He came from Australia to take it on.’
Eden, pretending not to be startled by Knott, said, ‘You’d have to be desperate for a roof over your head to come halfway round the world for this.’
Her breath visible and curling in the cruel November weather, Jess appreciated Hungry Hill’s charm. Out of the way. Untouched. She saw the farmhouse’s wonky outline in the velvet darkness. A light shone in a window. It was hopeful, that little light.
‘Hang on,’ she said, stopping suddenly. ‘Isn’t this a long barrow?’
‘Yes,’ said Knott, first with the facts, as ever. ‘It’s Fairy Barrow. It’s on the farm’s land, but there’s a right of way for tourists.’
‘This is sacred,’ said Jess. Her Doc Martens squelched in the churned earth. ‘This place is special. The killer didn’t dump body parts here by accident.’
Rain beat a tune on the plastic awning set up by the forensic team. People milled, but they milled with intent. Suited in white plastic, they photographed, they set down numbered markers, they filmed.
‘Sir,’ said one burly bloke.
‘What have we got?’ asked Eden.
Jess edged nearer. Water dripped off the awning and down her neck.
Knott edged nearer too. She was territorial about Eden.
‘Intestines, mainly. Butchered, he was. This isn’t a professional job.’ The burly scene-of-crime officer pointed to the curled, gory tubing which Jess was doing her best to pixillate. ‘Animals have been at it. I’d say it was dumped here between two and three a.m. Desolate spot to end up, sir.’
‘Yet in sight of the farmhouse,’ said Eden. ‘Daring.’
‘Have you noticed,’ Jess butted in, ignoring Knott’s scandalised tut, ‘the entrails are right in the middle of the mound?’
‘He took care over it,’ said Eden.
‘How come the top of this hill is so flat?’ asked Knott, blowing on her hands.
‘Because it’s not a hill.’ Oh, how sweet it was to correct Karen Knott. ‘A barrow is a man-made structure.’
‘How old is it?’ asked Eden, walking around the human offal, studying it.
‘Early Neolithic. About four thousand years ago.’ It always stunned Jess that she could stand on something built by people who had lived two thousand years before the Bible. ‘Barrows were generally built in dense woodland.’ She hadn’t thought about it before, but this barrow, and others like it, had only been exposed as civilisation had claimed the woods for farmland. Beyond this circle of man-made light, the woods circled them, restrained and held back, as if yearning to repossess.
‘What’s a barrow’s purpose?’ asked the crime-scene guy, who seemed fascinated.
‘Generally, they were burial chambers,’ said Jess. ‘We’re standing on a house of the dead’.
‘Cheerful as ever,’ muttered Knott.
***
Afterwards, when it was all over, Jess would recall the first time she saw Mitch Dalton.
She was skidding down Fairy Barrow, trying not to be pleased that Knott had fallen on her behind in the mud trying to keep up with Eden, when she noticed a man waiting for them at the bottom.
He was so wholesome and tanned and healthy that he looked all wrong in the neglected yard of Hungry Hill Farm.
‘You got here quick,’ he said, his accent redolent of kangaroos and Fosters and Neighbours. ‘Guess it must be true; the British police really are the best.’
And then he’d winked. At Jess. Which prompted her to think how rarely men winked anymore.
At me, at least.
He invited them in, and they followed him past a rusting tractor, a decades-old car with no wheels, and an ad-hoc sty over which an immense snout sucked in their scent.
‘Don’t stroke the pig,’ he said, as if anybody had planned to. ‘She’s a mean one.’
Out of the farm’s front door burst three children. All girls. All shouting. All scruffy. All happy.
‘Are these your daughters, Mr Dalton?’ Eden was businesslike.
‘Yup, they’re our little pixies,’ said Mitch. ‘Saffron, get off the tractor, bub, and come and say hi.’
‘They should really be inside,’ said Eden.
‘You heard the copper. In!’ yelled Mitch, and the pixies obeyed.
‘Is Mrs Dalton around?’
Saffron, the eldest, about ten, said as she passed Eden, ‘Mummy’s dead’.
Eden blinked.
‘S’okay,’ said Mitch. ‘We don’t usually tell visitors so bluntly, but yes, my wife passed away.’ He ruffled his daughter’s unwashed hair with a gentle, calloused hand.
Jess was moved. Another dead mother on All Hallow’s Day.
‘Let’s have a cuppa,’ said Mitch, opening the door wide for them all. ‘While you do the paperwork. ‘Cos there’s always paperwork.’
‘There is,’ agreed Eden.
***
Night pressed against the car windscreen as Eden drove Jess and Knott back to Margaret Thatcher Way. Back to the cop shop.
Knott was in the passenger seat. Every so often she craned her neck to look smugly at Jess in the back, who, in turn, flicked the V’s enthusiastically at Knott under cover of darkness.