Hell's Fire

by Chris Simms

  Alice raised an eyebrow. ‘Maybe if you didn’t punch your senior officers that would be a possibility.’

  Jon cringed at the memory of the incident with McCloughlin.

  ‘OK, it might not be happening anytime soon.’

  Alice smiled. ‘Come on, Jon. You and desks don’t go together. Running an incident room will make you miserable as sin, and you know it.’

  As usual, he thought, she had him totally sussed. Which left them living here and aiming for the local Church of England place. His thoughts turned again to his childhood and how much Dave and Ellie resented being made to attend Sunday school. And look at how things had turned out. Dave living God knows where and Ellie wanting to become a witch. ‘One thing, Ali. If we end up going down that route, we make it perfectly plain to Holly – and any other kids we have – that we don’t believe in any of that God stuff, alright?’

  ‘What if she wants to believe in it?’

  Jon shrugged. ‘If she does, and it’s of her own free will, fine. But if she starts parroting Jesus Loves Me shit, I reserve the right to step in with my own thoughts on the matter.’

  ‘And explain that Mummy and Daddy only went to church to get her a place at a good school?’ Alice smiled provocatively.

  Jon looked at his daughter sucking noisily on her beaker, a nappy bulging out from beneath her baby-gro. ‘She’ll have to learn everyone bullshits a little bit to get by.’

  Alice laughed. ‘I’ll let you, the fine upstanding policeman, tell her that.’

  He went up stairs. In their bedroom, he paused in front of the mirror. Thirty-five years old. He examined himself. Six-feetfour, fifteen and a half stone. The fine upstanding policeman, according to Alice. A hand went to his stomach and he pinched a slight roll of fat. It was beginning to build up, no matter how much time he spent training. He reflected on his dad, still in decent shape having just pipped sixty. ‘Fingers crossed, Jon,’ he murmured, reaching for a towel.

  Chapter 3

  He pulled into one of the car parks bordering the Manchester Royal Infirmary fifty minutes later. It took him another ten minutes to find a space, competition for slots being fiercer than at any supermarket on a Saturday morning.

  As he walked across the car park he looked at the row of trees lining one side. Tips of leaves were fuzzing the ends of their branches with a delicate green. Dandelions had recently erupted with miraculous speed through the cracked concrete of his own back yard and, as Jon stepped over the verge at the top of the hospital parking ground, he saw masses of the yellow flowers dotting the grass. A glance up revealed clumps of fluffy greyish cloud, edges lit white by the sun hidden behind them. The sky beyond was iridescent blue and he breathed in the light breeze, relishing the way spring always managed to lift his mood.

  The usual smattering of smokers were gathered in their dressing gowns, on either side of the main entrance. For a second, the familiar urge hit him. But then he saw a stick-like woman raise her bony wrist. A half-smoked cigarette was between her thin fingers and a tube emerged from the back of her hand, looping upwards to an intravenous drip she’d wheeled out with her. That is bloody horrific, Jon thought, and strode through the sliding doors to the reception desk. There, he asked for the whereabouts of Ben Waters. The receptionist consulted a computer screen. ‘Are you a relative?’

  He held up his warrant card in reply.

  ‘He’s in the cardiac suite, down the corridor, turn right at the end.’

  As Jon turned to go he heard a familiar voice. ‘DI Spicer, nice morning isn’t it?’

  He thrust his hands into his trouser pockets and turned round. Carmel Todd, crime reporter at the Manchester Evening Chronicle. She’d cut her blonde hair short since he’d last seen her. It was a good move, he thought, settling on green eyes that now seemed larger and more friendly. ‘Hi Carmel.’ He noticed the notebook and pen in her hands. ‘Here visiting a poorly aunt?’

  She gave a quick smile, but it didn’t ring true. Fair enough, Jon thought. It was a crap attempt at being funny.

  ‘Is he still alive?’

  ‘As far as I know.’

  Her lips tensed, then the expression was gone. ‘Chances of survival?’

  ‘Am I wearing a white coat and stethoscope? Christ, Carmel, give us a break will you?’

  Her shoulders relaxed and he controlled the urge to smile. Since the Monster of the Moor case, they’d reached a grudging sort of agreement. He kept her up to speed on his cases, she kept off his back while he went about his job.

  ‘I’ll let you know more once I know more.’

  She lowered the notebook and nodded to the side. ‘I’ll be in the canteen bit just down there. There’s a free tea in it for you.’

  ‘Oooh, I can’t wait.’ She shot him an uncertain look and he raised his eyebrows to show he wasn’t serious. ‘I’ll duck by on my way out.’

  He set off along the corridor, stopping at the reception desk for the cardiac suite a minute later. A nurse took him to a side room where a very calm looking Waters was sitting up in bed reading a book. That’s some change from last night, Jon thought.

  As he entered the room he couldn’t help glance down at the priest’s hairy chest. His pyjama top was open and in the middle of each of several shaved patches of skin was a circular plaster. A wire from each one ran into a small black box on the bedside cabinet. Jon looked for a screen or any other beeping machinery.

  ‘Everything’s beamed to a monitoring room somewhere else,’ Waters said, with a casual wave. ‘It had me confused too.’

  Jon pictured a darkened room with a row of anonymous medical staff sitting before a bank of glowing monitors. ‘Technology nowadays. Not sure if it makes me more relaxed, or less.’

  The priest smiled. ‘I quite agree. I found it unsettling too. Please, sit down.’

  Jon eased his frame into the soft chair by the side of the bed, noticing the cover of Waters’ book as he did so. The Pilgrim’s Progress, by John Bunyan. ‘So, how are you feeling?’

  The priest lowered the open book, revealing the title at the top of the page. The author’s apology for his book. ‘Quite a bit better, thanks.’ An earnest expression came over his face. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t stay around to answer your questions.’

  Jon didn’t know how to answer. Why did religious types always have to be so bloody meek? The guy was on the brink of a heart attack and here he was apologising for it. ‘Hardly your fault, Sir.’

  The priest went to say something, stopped, then started again.

  ‘I’ve had these things once or twice in the past.’

  Jon raised his eyebrows, not wanting to use the word coronary.

  ‘They’re palpitations.’ Waters explained. ‘Stress related and nothing too serious I’m relieved to say.’

  Are you sure, Jon thought. You weren’t too good when you realised your car had been broken into.

  ‘They’re keeping me in for twenty-four hour’s observation, then I’m free to go.’

  Jon sat back. ‘Well that’s a relief. I was very worried last night.’

  The priest nodded, then lowered his eyes. ‘My church is gone.’

  The sudden tremor in his voice made it impossible for Jon to discern whether it was a statement or a question. ‘Yes. The roof collapsed. I understand the fire is now out, but the remaining structure is badly burned.’

  Waters sighed. Jon pictured startled technicians gathering around a screen, studying the sudden change in the priest’s pulse, but the other man didn’t seem overtly distressed as his eyes drifted to the opposite wall. ‘It was obviously God’s will. He has, I can only hope, other plans for me.’

  Well, Jon thought, if believing that makes you feel better . . .

  ‘Oh, your car is secure by the way. We moved it next to the scene of crime unit, and uniformed officers are scouting the area for your kitbag. It’ll probably show up dumped in a nearby bin. What will you do now?’

  ‘Contact my bishop. To be honest, I’m torn between getting back to w
ork and asking for a little time off. Sometimes I think I need time to recharge my batteries. Perhaps I’ll apply for a posting in a country parish. The fabric of society in our inner cities really is starting to unravel, you know. I frequently fear for our future, I really do.’

  Jon had to purse his lips to stop an enthusiastic agreement popping out. ‘Have you had much trouble at your church then?’

  A ghost of a smile passed across Waters’ lips. ‘Shall I start with the most recent incident?’

  ‘Sorry,’ Jon said, cocking his head to the side. ‘Which incident?’

  ‘The attempted break-in three weeks ago. I scared them off that time, but they obviously came back.’

  ‘How do you mean scared them off ?’

  ‘A police officer noted all this down. Once he turned up.’ Jon caught the implication of the comment: it was probably hours before a patrol car got there. ‘I’ll get a copy of your statement, but could you run through it for me now?’

  A slight shiver passed through Waters’ shoulders. Again, Jon wondered how long before someone from the monitoring room came to see what was happening. ‘It was in the early hours. I was up, jotting down ideas for sermons. They often occur to me in the dead of night, wake me up sometimes with their urgency. Anyway, I heard the noise of metal on metal. Somehow I knew it was someone breaking into the church, so I turned off my reading lamp and drew back the curtain in my study. When I peered out the window I could see them. Three figures, all in black. They were working at the grille on one of the side windows that face the vicarage. I called the police, was told a patrol car would be on its way.’

  Jon knew that in each attack so far the arsonist had gained entry into the church by prising away a side window grille, probably with a car jack. Then they’d smashed through the window itself, climbed in, vandalised the altar and spray-painted the walls. Lastly they’d set a fire using hymn books, broken pieces of pews, altar cloths and anything else that was to hand. ‘What happened next?’

  ‘They bent the grille right back. Still no patrol car. When they smashed the first pane of glass, I had to intervene. It’s over a hundred years old. Stained glass is very expensive to replace.’

  ‘How did you intervene?’

  ‘I got a torch and went outside. Shouted that the police were coming, told them they’d best clear off straight away. Which they did.’

  Jon wanted to tut-tut. It was a stupid thing to have done. What if they hadn’t fled? The priest obviously believed God was on his side, so the thought of being kicked to death in his own graveyard probably hadn’t occurred to him. ‘Did you see any of their faces?’

  Waters shook his head. ‘They were covered. Balaclavas I suppose.’

  ‘Were they male or female in your opinion?’

  ‘Male, most certainly. Fairly young too, the way they sprinted off across the graveyard. Their movements were those of young men. I coach under-seventeens at hockey, I should know.’

  ‘Did you see what they were using to bend the grille back?’

  ‘One was carrying some sort of a tool.’

  ‘Could it have been a car jack?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so, they were pumping it up and down. I thought it was some sort of a crowbar, but now you mention a car jack, that seems more likely.’

  ‘Any of them carrying anything else?’

  ‘Yes. One had a container. Plastic. I heard it when it bumped against a headstone.’

  Jon wondered if the uniformed officers who had been investigating the arson attacks so far were aware of the incident. He had a nasty feeling they weren’t. If the attending officer had filed it as an attempted burglary, his report may have gone unnoticed.

  ‘What did you do next?’

  ‘Inspected the damage, then waited for the promised patrol car.’

  ‘Which arrived . . . ?’

  ‘Two hours later. Just as dawn was breaking. He looked in need of a good sleep. I think I was his last incident before he clocked off. Anyway, I made him a cup of tea and he noted everything down.’

  ‘You say this was three weeks ago. Do you recall the exact date?’

  Waters bowed his head. ‘Let’s see. It was a Sunday night.’ Jon counted back three weeks. ‘The fourth of April?’

  ‘Yes, it must have been.’

  Two nights before the first arson attack on a derelict church in Swinton. Shit, this could have been their first attempt. ‘From what you said just now, I got the impression there have been other incidents in the past. Is that so?’

  The priest placed his book to one side and raised the left sleeve of his pyjama top. A thin scar ran along the under side of his forearm, dots still visible on either side where the stitches had come out. Jon took in its angle and position. Classic defence wounds. ‘Someone tried to slash you?’

  Waters nodded. ‘When I wouldn’t give him cash or alcohol. You get used to people hammering at the door in the dead of night. The addicted and afflicted I call them. This individual was both it seemed. They aren’t interested in spiritual guidance, just money for their next fix.’

  Jon shook his head. Most police officers would only approach someone like that if they had a stab-proof vest and can of pepper spray at the ready. This poor bastard was opening his door to them with nothing but a dog collar for defence.

  ‘But it’s not just those people.’ Waters was speaking a little faster now. ‘The front of the church is showing signs of subsidence. Not such an issue anymore, I suppose. Anyway, I advertised locally to raise funds. Next thing, I’m being hounded by builders claiming an expertise in stone masonry or architectural restoration. Leaflets, phone calls, free quotes. Where do they think the money’s coming from?’ He seemed to shrink into his pyjamas. ‘The congregation hardly fills the front pews. Another decade and they’ll all be dead.’ He stopped, his hands searching out his book, cradling it protectively. ‘Forgive me. I’m feeling rather maudlin at the moment. I shouldn’t let such a gloomy outlook beset me.’

  Jon studied him. He hadn’t thought of priests as businessmen, in charge of something that required finance to survive. But, like any building, a church needed to be heated, lit and properly maintained. His mind went to Gorton monastery, a magnificent building left to rot once donations dried up. He leaned forward in his seat. ‘When did that attack occur?’

  ‘Last month.’

  Jon wondered if the incidents could somehow be connected.

  ‘Was your attacker caught?’

  ‘No, I’ve heard nothing more.’

  ‘Description?’ He caught himself lapsing into interrogator’s role. ‘Sorry. What did he look like?’

  ‘About six feet tall. Thin, shaved head. Gaunt in the face. He was wearing a shiny top, like a cagoule.’

  Jon knew the uniform well. Below that there would probably have been a pair of nylon tracksuit bottoms that had ridden up around spindly ankles, revealing dirty socks and trainers. Your standard scrote, hopelessly hooked on crack or crystal meth or heroin or speed. Maybe all four. A walking corpse, destined to cheat, lie, rob and steal before something finally snuffed him out. Take your pick: a bad deal, a dirty syringe, or a double decker bus for all Jon cared. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He had the usual speech prepared. His faith had lapsed, he still wanted to believe, he would start coming to church, refind his path. But – and there’s always a but – could he just have some money for the night. I’ve heard it so often. He’ll have needed to eat. Or his pregnant girlfriend would have needed to eat.’ He paused for a second to lick his lips. ‘There’s usually a female involved somewhere.’

  Jon blinked. That was, he thought, a heck of a lot of bitterness you just packed into the word female.

  ‘Sometimes,’ Waters carried on, ‘their baby’s short of formula. I even keep a box of milk powder ready. Of course, it’s never the right type. So it must be cash. Ten pounds, five. Anything. Always the same.’

  ‘So you turned him away?’

  ‘Yes. I stood firm. Food and nothing else. He got
agitated and the next thing went for me with his knife. I pushed him off my step and slammed the door.’ A cynical note entered his voice.

  ‘Funny, he never did turn up to any service.’

  The guy needed cheering up. Jon looked for a wedding ring. Saw none. ‘You get on to your bishop. I think the least you deserve is that break. Where would you go if you get it?’

  ‘There’s a retreat in Spain I love,’ Waters replied, his face brightening. ‘It’s near to Salamanca. Have you ever been?’

  Jon shook his head.

  ‘Stunning place. So full of history.’

  ‘Good, keep your mind on going back there. Stay positive. In the meantime, can I send an officer to take a statement for last night?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Great. I’ll release a comment to the press. Once they realise you’re fine they’ll soon disappear. They’re like vultures in that respect.’ Jon stood and held out his hand. ‘Take care. I’ll keep you posted of any developments.’

  The vicar was turning to his book as Jon set off for the canteen. Unlucky Carmel, he thought. No corpse for you on this case. Not yet at least.

  The hospital canteen smelt of fried bacon and only a few tables were occupied, a couple of doctors in earnest discussion at one. What looked like a family were at another, the mum looking strained, the two kids glued to handheld games consoles. Carmel beckoned to him. She was sitting at a corner table near the till.

  ‘I’ve already paid for your drink,’ she said, gesturing towards the elderly lady by a stainless steel urn.

  ‘Tea or coffee?’ the woman smiled, reaching for a cup and saucer.

  ‘Coffee, thanks. Black, no sugar.’

  She handed him his drink and he made his way over to Carmel. She’d taken her overcoat off and was wearing a lilac fitted shirt and black trousers.

  He sat down opposite her. ‘How’re things then?’

  She continued running a varnished purple nail round the rim of her cup. ‘Apart from this church business? Slow. Nothing doing on Crocodile Dundee?’