Tommy stood up, plunging his hands deep into his pockets. “At home. Alone.”
“No one saw you?” Riddle asked. “Perhaps you put the bin out or sat in the window with the light on?”
Tommy shook his head. “I didn’t leave the flat at all and the curtains were closed.”
Miller’s eyes narrowed, but he remained silent.
“So when did you last see Samantha Thompson?” Riddle asked.
“Night before last,” Tommy said, his gaze fixed on the floor. “I met her after work.”
“You went for a drink?”
“I wanted to, but she said she wasn’t in the mood, so we walked along the harbour and I left her at the swing bridge.”
“And that was the last time you saw her?” The question sounded more blunt than Riddle had intended, but Tommy seemed not to mind.
“Yes. In this life at least.”
“Sorry?” Miller said.
“I believe that we will all meet in the spirit world beyond the veil.”
Riddle looked at Tommy, then at Miller and back at Tommy. “Spirit world? Veil? Is that what all Satanists believe?”
For the first time Tommy became animated. “I’m not a Satanist, I’m a Pagan. There’s a world of difference.”
“I see,” Riddle said, making no effort to hide the fact that he did not. He had already developed an instant dislike to Tommy Gregory, based on what he considered an affront to sartorial style. Now he was being fed some half-baked new age rubbish by a man whose girlfriend had just been murdered and was showing nothing that Riddle considered constituted grief.
“But you admit you’re a practicing Pagan,” Riddle said.
“Admit?” Tommy said. “It’s an established religion that far predates your Church of England. There’s nothing to admit. I just am.”
“We’re not making any negative judgement on your religion, Tommy,” Miller said with a sharp look at Riddle. “We’re just trying to establish facts. Would I be correct in saying that your religion is a help in your time of grief?”
“Of course. What happened to Samantha is terrible and I have no doubt the person who did this to her will be punished by the gods, but Paganism has taught me to see a wider picture. She is with the ancestors now. It is a good place to be.”
Despite Miller’s warning look, Riddle was finding Tommy’s detached reaction to Samantha Thompson’s murder increasingly hard to take. “And is naked on a tombstone a good place to be?”
For the first time, Tommy seemed to show some emotion. He flinched at Riddle’s words. “Naked? She was naked?”
“Sergeant,” Miller said, his voice tight with anger. “Perhaps you could speak to Mr. Beaumont again.”
Riddle knew it wasn’t a question. He turned without another word and walked back towards the shop front.
*
“What the hell was that?” Miller asked after the two policemen had left the stationers. They were standing outside Marine, Miller’s breath coming in staccato icy blasts.
“I can’t stand all that woolly new age crap,” Riddle said, immediately regretting his words.
“Frankly, sergeant, I couldn’t care less what your opinions on so-called new age religion are. What I do care about is you harassing someone who has just lost his girlfriend in a violent murder. Jesus, man, what were you thinking?”
“It wasn’t as if he showed any sign of grief…”
“Good God, Riddle. You’re supposed to be someone who can read people as part of his job. Didn’t it occur to you that his very lack of emotion was just his way of dealing with the pain of Samantha Thompson’s murder?”
“No, sir.” It was true, that had never occurred to him. He had been so frustrated with Tommy Gregory’s talk of veils and spirits that he had taken his words at face value. It was a rookie error. “It’s just I kept thinking about Samantha Thompson’s body and the dead crow. What kind of sick, Satanic weirdo would come up with something like that?”
Miller shook his head. “You really don’t get it, do you? Satanism and Paganism are worlds apart. You seem to think that anyone who doesn’t stand in a draughty church singing Jerusalem on a Sunday is some kind of anti-Christ with three sixes on his head.”
Riddle wouldn’t have put it like that himself, but it wasn’t a million miles from what he thought.
Miller was gripping the railings as he stared into the murky water of Whitby’s harbour. Riddle was a good policeman, he knew that, but sometimes his small town prejudices got in the way of him being a great one.
Miller turned around to face Riddle. “Right,” he said, “my plan was for you to speak with Samantha’s work colleagues while I go and speak with Dr Carrs, but bearing in mind some of your preconceived ideas, I think you need to be there as well.”
Riddle looked crestfallen. He knew he had allowed his temper to get the better of him, but was that any reason for Miller to treat him like it was his first day on the job?
Miller seemed to read his sergeant’s thoughts. “It’s not a punishment, I think you’ll find what Dr Carrs has to say interesting.”
“And what about Tommy Gregory?”
“Call Newbold and get her to organise a full statement.”
*
After Riddle had called Newbold with Miller’s instructions, the two detectives walked back to the car. “Who’s this Dr Carrs?” Riddle asked, as they crossed the bridge and turned right towards the car park. “I’m not sure Dr Powell will be too happy about bringing an outsider in.”
“He’s not that kind of doctor,” Miller said. “He used to work at the university, but now he writes books about religion.”
Riddle frowned. “Not the same man who runs that new age shop on Henrietta Street?”
“The very same. You don’t have a problem with that do you, sergeant?”
“No sir,” Riddle lied.
Driving along the cobbled Henrietta Street was nearly impossible during the tourist season. A few days before Christmas it was easier, but not much. The street was narrow, barely wide enough for one car. Its old houses lent in towards each other, as if whispering ancient secrets.
At the far end, just above the descent to the east pier the road terminated in a turning area, adjacent to which were a couple of parking spaces clearly marked Residents Parking Only.
“Pull in here,” Miller said. “The traffic wardens know who we are.”
Riddle knew this was true, but he also knew the local residents did not and it was their wrath that could far outstrip a council employee when it came to illegal parking.
They retraced their steps to just past the smoke house, where on the opposite side of the road was a holiday cottage, the front room of which had been converted into a shop. Above the door was a sign that read Spirit of the Land. Riddle sighed as he followed his boss inside.
Behind a counter, littered with pamphlets and old books, was a bald headed man who looked to be in his late fifties. He was wearing a thick polo neck jumper and faded corduroy trousers. Round his neck was a pendant decorated with a symbol that Riddle didn’t recognise.
He stood up and held out his hand. “I’ve been expecting you,” he said with a warm, cultured voice.
“The spirits tell you that?” Riddle said, before he could stop himself.
The man smiled warmly. “Not exactly. Your boss telephoned earlier to say he was going to drop in.”
Riddle closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Sorry.”
“No apology needed. I’m Philip Carrs and you must be DS Riddle. Frank has told me much about you.”
Riddle shook Philip’s hand.
“Now we’ve sorted that out, I hoped you might be able to help,” Miller said.
“If I can. What do you need?”
Miller produced a brown folder and placed it on the counter. “I suppose I should warn you that the photographs in here aren’t for the weak stomached.”
Philip nodded his understanding and took out the photographs. He turned very pale. “I think I�
��m going to need a drink.”
Chapter 8
“Sorry about that,” Philip Carr said as he took a sip of whisky.
Miller, Riddle and the academic had left the shop and walked the few yards to the Duke of Devonshire public house where Miller had ordered two Glendronachs and an orange juice.
They were sitting in the far corner of the bar so no one could overhear their conversation, or catch a glimpse of the photographs.
“There’s nothing to apologise about,” Miller said.
“Perhaps,” Philip said, “but I’ve surprised myself. I’ve spent the past thirty years researching religion and I can tell you that few things in human history have caused more pain and slaughter. But when I saw these pictures… they’re so real. I’m used to book illustrations or grainy black and white photographs, many of which are staged. But these…” he swept his arm across the table.
“I know,” Miller said. “But we could really use your help.”
Phillip took another sip of his Scotch and let out a long sigh. “Of course, but how exactly?”
“We have been led to understand that the boyfriend of the victim has become heavily involved in Paganism…”
“You think this has anything to do with Paganism?” Philip interrupted.
“Perhaps some dark mass?” Riddle suggested.
“Dark mass?” Philip looked confused, then his face suddenly cleared. “You seem to be confusing Pagans with Satanists, and possibly Hammer Horror Satanists at that.”
Riddle flushed. “There’s nothing funny about this crime, Doctor Carrs.”
Philip held up a conciliatory hand. “I wasn’t suggesting for a moment that there was, it’s just that this has nothing to do with Paganism.” He took another sip of his whisky. “What do you know about modern Paganism?” he asked.
Miller glanced at Riddle as he spoke. “Why don’t you briefly explain about new age religions?”
Philip nodded. “Well for a start, the expression “new age” is pretty much meaningless, not to mention misleading. Of course some religions are new, but most – and this is especially relevant for Paganism – are old, very old sometimes. Paganism predates Christianity by hundreds and hundreds of years. In fact most modern Christian festivals are based on Pagan ones, such as Christmas.”
“But Christmas is about Christ,” Riddle said, immediately realising he had fallen into a much used trap.
“The name is of course Christian, but the time of year, the idea of the tree inside your home, is very much Pagan. It all goes back to a time when people’s lives were much more tied up to the seasons than they are today. Paganism could be seen as a British religion – or at least a religion of the people who lived on this island before the Romans, before the Vikings, even before the first “invaders”. It’s a nature-loving religion where the trees and the rivers are sacred.”
“So you’re saying that Pagans weren’t Satanists?” Riddle asked. Despite himself, he was finding Dr Carrs’ explanation interesting.
“That’s just the thing,” the academic said, warming to his subject. “Satan is an invention of Christianity – you can’t have Satan without a Christian God. Before the Romans arrived, there was simply no idea of Satan.”
“But that was almost two thousand years ago,” Riddle said.
“True, but modern day Pagans believe the same things. They base their beliefs on pre-Christian religion, so Satan would be an irrelevance.”
Riddle sat back in his chair. It was a lot to take in.
“So in your opinion,” Miller said, “a Pagan couldn’t have done this.”
Philip glanced at the folder that held the photographs. “I suppose anyone could have done those terrible things,” he said, “but my point is that there is nothing Pagan about them. If the killer is a Pagan, which I find highly unlikely, then the crime and the whole dead crow abomination aren’t related to his religion. Just the opposite.”
Miller finished his whisky, considered ordering another, and then thought better of it.
“All right,” he said. “Let’s accept for a moment that the killing doesn’t have a Pagan link. What about Satanism?”
“Well I’m not an expert on Satanism, but for what it’s worth, it has all the hallmarks of a black mass.”
Miller sat forward. “Really?”
“You have to understand that despite the movies and TV programmes, Satanism has a very small following, especially in this country. It’s a bit of a joke, really. It tends to be adolescent boys sitting in their rooms looking at Satanic websites. The amount of what you might term serious or dedicated Satanism is from what I understand pretty much non-existent.”
“But it does happen?” Riddle asked.
“Every so often,” Philip conceded.
“Could this be one such occasion?”
Philip thought for a moment. “I’m afraid it could.”
“Because of the crow?” Riddle asked.
“Partly, but also the way the body was left. You see one of the main points of a Satanic mass is that it is a parody of a Christian service.”
“A parody?”
“Yes – it sets out to ridicule Christian and especially Catholic services.”
“If you make fun of something, it loses its strength?” Riddle asked. He was finding himself warming to Dr Carrs.
“Exactly. One of its key purposes is to mock God. Again, this separates it from Paganism. Pagans have no desire to mock other deities; indeed, being a Pagan means respecting all religions.”
Something had been bothering Miller for a while and he had finally managed to put his finger on it. “It’s early days, but according to our SOCO team there is no evidence of more than one or two people at the scene. The grass hasn’t been trampled; there are only a couple of sets of visible footprints. It’s difficult at this moment to be sure, but my understanding is that it is highly unlikely that there were many people in the chapel graveyard last night, and from what you say a typical black mass involves a number of people?”
“I’d say at least five or six, often more.”
“So why carry out a black mass on your own?” Riddle asked. All the talk of Pagans and Satanists had been unsettling him. He was a policeman who liked cold hard facts and anything that wandered from that path made him feel uneasy.
“It’s a good question,” Philip said. “Why ridicule a Christian service if there is no one there to see you do so?”
“Apart from the victim,” Miller said quietly.
“It’s possible your killer may have just performed the act by himself,” Philip said, “but it would be the first time I’ve heard of that happening. On the other hand,” Philip added as he reluctantly reached for the photographs again, “you see the crosses on the soles of her feet?”
They were all too clear in the memories of both policemen for them to need to look at the photographs again.
“Well my guess is that they’re a crude attempt to depict an inverted cross – that’s a classic Satanist symbol. Just because it wasn’t the black mass it seems to resemble, doesn’t mean that the killer was not a Satanist, or was at least influenced by Satanism.”
Miller sat back in his chair. The heat from the real fire was at last warming him up. Outside a sea mist was creeping over Tate Pier and enveloping the pub in its silent embrace. He had the sudden urge to cast the case aside and stay cocooned inside the pub.
With a great effort, Miller stood up. “Thank you very much Doctor Carrs,” he said holding his hand out. “Are you heading back to the shop?”
“Not just yet,” Philip said with a glance out of the window. “I may stay for another drink.”
Miller nodded his understanding and made his way out of the pub and to the foot of the 199 steps.
“Fancy a climb?” Miller asked, gesturing towards the steps, which were already vanishing into the mist.
Riddle didn’t, but he knew all too well of Miller’s strange love of fresh air. Besides, he had to admit that by the time they had returne
d to the car, navigated Henrietta Street and driven all the way around to the cliff top, they could have walked the distance in half the time. At least he had remembered his thick winter overcoat.
*
The two policemen began to climb the steps. In summer they were full of families making their way to St Mary’s church or to visit the abbey. Children were often heard counting out loud to ensure that there actually were 199 steps. Miller had done it himself during his many childhood summer holidays. He remembered one ascent on the shoulders of his father, the smell of fish and chips following them up until it was replaced by the aroma of freshly cut grass. That had been what – almost 40 years before? It all seemed such a different world and yet the memories continued to burn brightly.
“Sir,” Riddle said for the second time.
“Sorry, sergeant. I was miles away. What did you say?”
“I was just asking what you thought of all this Pagan and Satanic stuff.”
“Stuff?” Miller said. “What I think is that very little in this case makes sense, so I’m keeping an open mind. Which is why we need to speak to the chapel’s vicar. I understand he thought he could help?”
“He offered,” Riddle said, pausing by a bench. “I assumed you decided to take Doctor Carrs’ advice instead.”
“Not instead. As well as.”
“At least we know someone’s in the clear,” Riddle said. “One of the constables took a statement from the vicar’s neighbour who saw him emptying his bins down on Henrietta Street. He was making all kinds of a racket. Mind you, I did the same thing the other night. Maria had overfilled the black bin and it blew over in the storm…” he trailed off, remembering with distaste the mess the contents of the bin had made of his newly pressed trousers.
The two policemen were now roughly half way up the steps. Behind them, the town had been completely obscured by the mist. Ahead, their view was down to a few feet. The cliff top remained out of sight.
Riddle was just about to set off again, when Miller held out an arm to stop him. Riddle was about to speak, but Miller gestured for him to be silent.
Better the Devil You Know Page 6
