by Chris Simms
Jon shook his head. A lone male had taken to cycling up behind elderly women in Wythenshaw, cutting through the straps of their handbag with a razor sharp blade, then pedalling away with their possessions. Two weeks ago an old lady had put up a struggle and ended up being stabbed five times. The pathologist had calculated the blade to be ten inches long with a serrated upper side. Hence the Crocodile Dundee moniker.
‘No, it’ll be signed over to McCloughlin’s syndicate now we’ve got the church case.’
Her eyebrows arched a fraction. ‘All settled with him then?’ Carmel was the reporter McCloughlin had leaked details to about the Monster of the Moor case. Jon’s discovery of the fact had led to him laying out McCloughlin in the stairwell at Longsight police station. Since then they had steered cautious paths, locked into mutual silence by the dirt each had on the other.
Jon crossed his arms. ‘Looks like it for the moment. I’m still watching my back though.’
‘So you should. These churches – teenage kids, or something more sinister?’
‘Off the record?’ She nodded.
‘Teenagers. The priest recently spotted three lads trying to force the grille on one of his church’s side windows. Scared them away, but they obviously came back.’
‘Graffiti on the walls of this last one?’
‘I’m finding out straight after this.’ He glanced at his watch.
‘Shit, I’d better go.’ He took a gulp of his coffee and grimaced.
‘Think I’ll pass on that.’
‘How’s the priest doing?’ Carmel asked as he got up.
‘Burnt out. Like his church in fact.’
She acknowledged his play on words with a little nod. ‘But he’ll survive?’
‘Seems so.’
‘Let me know what’s happening, won’t you?’
‘No problem,’ Jon replied, already heading for the exit.
Chapter 4
The incident room at Longsight was all but empty. Jon looked about for anyone who might know what was going on.
‘Buchanon’s moved the meeting to the room at the end of the corridor,’ an indexer replied from behind his computer screen.
‘Everyone’s in there.’
Jon thanked him. As he walked back out the door he reflected on Mark Buchanon being his Senior Investigating Officer. They’d got into the MIT at the same time, and were almost the same age. Buchanon had joined the Greater Manchester Police four years ago, having spent his career until then with the Met. Apparently his wife was an expert in photon science and had been contracted by Manchester University to undertake a big research project at Jodrell Bank, the huge observatory out on the Cheshire plain near Macclesfield.
Jon found Buchanon himself a bit cold as a person. Efficient, no doubt about it, conscientious and committed too. But there was a slight air of detachment about him. Jon hadn’t really analysed it until his colleague had successfully applied for promotion to DCI, then almost immediately been given Summerby’s position when the old boy retired at the end of last year.
Buchanon, it was rumoured, was tipped to go a lot higher than heading up one of the MIT’s syndicates. It didn’t surprise Jon. The guy obviously had brains. Just as importantly, he also kept calm and collected on camera – a valuable attribute for a senior officer these days. Just a shame, Jon thought, about the tightly fixed crimps that made his short brown hair look like an electric current had just passed through it.
It made sense to hold the initial briefing in the big conference room. Any suspicious fire prompted a multi-agency approach and Jon knew that, along with members of the MIT, there would be the crime scene manager, forensics, representatives from the fire service, and the uniformed police officers who’d been handling the case up until now, all crammed in.
Jon opened the door to a buzz of voices. No seats left at the central table. He plonked himself down in one of the chairs lining the side of the room and looked around him. Buchanon was at the top of the table, conferring with Webster, the Fire Investigation Officer from the church. Next to him was a dumpy-looking woman with several bulky files, probably a forensics officer with specialist knowledge of fires. To her side was Nikki Kington. She was staring at him and Jon realised she must have been waiting for his gaze to move round to where she was sitting. As soon as their eyes met she looked back to her colleague with the files.
Guilt flared in Jon’s head. Christ, this was her first case as Crime Scene Manager since being signed off for stress. Jon’s mind went back to the Monster of the Moor case and the night he and Nikki went searching for evidence in the gully by Black Hill. What a fucking mistake. Possibly the stupidest decision he’d ever made as an officer, and made all the worse by the fact it had involved Nikki.
His eyes lingered on her profile a moment longer. Her face seemed slightly thinner, adding an air of vulnerability to a woman who, until recently, had an aura of self-confidence that Jon found more than attractive.
His gaze wandered on. There were several of his syndicate colleagues, including Gardiner and Adlon and next to them, Rick, who was now wearing another suit. Jon grinned, straightening the lapels of his jacket as he did so. Seeing the gesture, Rick flicked his middle finger up for an instant. The rest of the table consisted of uniformed officers and a few people in civilian clothes.
Buchanon looked at his watch. ‘OK, let’s get started. As you’ll all be aware, an emergency call was received at three twentyfive this morning. Fire services arrived at the Sacred Heart in Fairfield at three-forty. They contained the blaze, but could not prevent it from completely gutting the church.’
Buchanon nodded to his side, his hair not moving a millimetre, as he did so. ‘This is—’ he paused. ‘Sorry, I’m not sure what your title is nowadays.’
Webster smiled. ‘Neither do any of us in the fire service. I was an assistant divisional officer, but that rank has now become station commander.’
Buchanon nodded. ‘Thanks. Station Commander Webster is the fire investigation team manager for the Greater Manchester Fire and Rescue Service.’
Webster put his elbows on the table. ‘As you all know, this is the fourth church to burn down in under a month. Our initial examination indicates this one bears the same hallmarks as the other three. Entry appears to have been through a side window, the protective grille of which was forced back. This we can now assume was by a car jack.’
He looked at Nikki, who flinched slightly in her seat then quickly bent to the side. Plastic crackled as she lifted a large evidence bag. Inside was a car jack, almost fully extended. As she attempted to steady it, Jon could see the smallest of trembles in her fingers.
She looked up, her usual air of decisiveness lacking. ‘My name’s Nikki Kington and I’m managing the crime scene. This was found in the grass below the side window which had been forced open.’ She held up a smaller evidence bag which contained several pieces of broken glass. ‘These fragments were found in the same spot. Their jagged edges indicate the pane of glass was smashed, rather than fractured as a result of heat from the fire. Also their undersides are clear of soot or smoke damage, indicating the window was broken before the fire started.’
Buchanon leaned forward. ‘We need to be thinking about why this car jack was left behind. Carelessness, or maybe they were disturbed. What we can say is that our arsonist or arsonists entered, and probably exited, the building through the side window. Fragments of glass will most certainly be embedded in their clothing. Station Commander, please continue.’
Jon detected a glimmer of relief on Nikki’s face as the fire officer took over. ‘The church walls do not appear in danger of collapse, so the building was entered at first light. The fire caused the roof to fall in, covering the entire scene in a layer of roof timbers and slate tiles. Although some supporting trusses are still in place at the tops of the church walls, those on the right hand side at the altar end of the church have been almost completely burnt away.’
The dumpy woman with the files looked up. ‘This f
act, along with the V-shaped burn pattern at the base of the wall below that spot, suggests the fire originated there.’
Webster nodded. ‘I instructed my crew to leave that area untouched and begin excavating larger debris from the rest of the building. The roof timbers are of considerable weight, so we moved a mini crane on site to start lifting those items over the church walls. This is happening as we speak and I anticipate the scene will be safe enough for a forensic examination by lunch.’
Jon didn’t envy the task forensics faced. Identifying exactly how and where the fire started would require the type of fingertip excavation employed at an archaeological site. Every bit of debris would have to be sifted through, identified, recorded and packaged in case it counted as evidence. Trapped in the waterlogged ash would be that acrid smell, ready to be released as soon as it was disturbed.
A thickly built uniformed officer at the other end of the table half raised a hand. Buchanon gestured for him to speak.
‘Inspector Mather, Trafford Division. I’ve been co-ordinating the investigation into the previous attacks. Any sign of vandalism inside the church?’
The fire investigation officer nodded. ‘We could see evidence of graffiti on the walls at the altar end of the church. Symbols, shapes, I’m not sure what; smoke damage is severe.’
Mather leaned his square shoulders forward. ‘Pentacles?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Five-pointed stars?’
‘Possible, the shapes were certainly jagged.’
The inspector gave his colleagues in Trafford Division a meaningful look.
‘This is as good a time as any to look at the previous attacks,’ Buchanon announced. ‘Inspector Mather, it’s all yours.’
The officer opened a file. ‘First attack occurred on the sixth of April, a derelict Methodist church in Swinton—’
‘Sorry to interrupt.’ Jon felt all eyes in the room turning to him. ‘I’ve just come from the hospital bed of the priest whose church burned down last night. Are you aware he chased three people trying to break into it on Sunday the fourth of this month?’
The Inspector looked uneasy and Jon knew he’d inadvertently put him on the spot. ‘No, I wasn’t.’
‘Not your fault,’ Jon quickly replied. ‘I suspect the attending officer logged it as an attempted B and E. Thing is, they were bending back the grille of a side window using, as the priest said, a piece of equipment.’
‘Could he give a description of the people trying to break in?’ Buchanon asked.
‘I haven’t had a chance to dig out his statement yet,’ Jon replied, ‘but he said they were three males, all dressed in black. Faces concealed, but he thinks one fled carrying a large plastic container.’
Buchanon turned to one of the civilian assistants taking notes.
‘Janet, get on the system would you? An incident involving The
Sacred Heart, Fairfield, fourth of April. Check the next day too
– the report may not have been filed straight away.’
As the woman hurried from the room Buchanon turned back to Jon. ‘How is the priest by the way?’
Jon’s hand see-sawed from side to side. ‘Not so good. Devastated, actually. He’s been through some rough times recently. Assaulted in the vicarage not long ago, sustained a knife wound to his forearm in the incident.’
‘Was it a heart attack he suffered last night?’
‘No. His pulse went haywire, but just palpitations apparently. I think he needs a good holiday.’
‘Sounds like it,’ Buchanon replied, looking back to Mather.
‘You were recapping?’
‘The first arson attack occurred on Swinton Methodist Church on the sixth of April, a Tuesday. Next was Saint Thomas’s, an Anglican church in Pendleton, five nights later on Sunday the eleventh.’
‘If it was them at the church in Fairfield three weeks ago, they tried to burn down the first church on a Sunday night too,’ Jon interjected.
‘Good point,’ Buchanon said. ‘Dates of the third and fourth attacks?’
Mather consulted his notes. ‘Then we have a gap of eleven nights before a Church of England building, All Saints in Whalley Range, went up. That was on a Thursday, the twenty-second. Then we have last night’s, Monday the twenty-sixth. No witnesses to the first three attacks. The only thing we can find to link them is their relatively secluded locations. None are on main roads, all are tucked away in quiet residential areas. We’ve been working on the theory that the culprits are driving around during the day scoping potential targets, then returning in the early hours of the morning to carry out their attacks.’
‘So they’ve got transport,’ Buchanon said. ‘No trains or buses that time of night. How about door-to-doors in the neighbourhoods? Any reports of unfamiliar cars cruising the area? Three males loitering in church grounds?’
‘Nothing so far.’
‘And no significant evidence from the crime scenes either?’
‘Very little. The accelerant being used is petrol; that’s now been confirmed by a forensic chemist for all three cases. They’re building a pyre using anything combustible that comes to hand. They always position it at the side wall of the church, at the base of wooden panelling in two instances. In terms of—’
He was interrupted by the ringing of the phone in the corner. Buchanon mouthed a silent curse, then flicked a finger to the officer nearest it. The man picked it up, eyes straying to Jon before he lowered the handset to address Buchanon. ‘It’s the front desk sir. A member of the public is downstairs. He says he’s got evidence that’s vital to the arson attacks. He wants to speak directly with DI Spicer.’
Buchanon looked at Jon, eyebrows raised.
Jon returned the expression. ‘Maybe because the local radio gave my name.’
‘Yes, probably. Who is this person?’ Buchanon asked the officer holding the phone.
‘A Mr Henry Robson, Sir.’
From the corner of his eyes, Jon saw the uniformed officers from Trafford Division exchange glances. One raised a hand to cover his mouth.
‘Well Jon, you’d better see what he’s got.’
‘Sir.’ Jon stood up and headed downstairs.
Chapter 5
In the station’s reception area was the usual collection of people. Some glum, some impatient, others slouched with legs thrust out. One man, however, was standing by the counter, rocking slightly as he transferred his weight from one foot to the other.
Jon looked him over. Late forties, greying hair, neatly cut. He was wearing the kind of slightly padded, light brown coat usually favoured by pensioners. Jon’s glance returned to the man’s head. He was staring at the notices on the wall with an intense expression, as if studying a higher-than-expected restaurant bill. Jon leaned towards the officer behind the counter. ‘Is that Mr Robson?’
The person rolled his eyes. ‘It is.’
Jon stepped round to the security door, buzzed the lock and pushed it open. Robson was holding a leather satchel. ‘Mr Robson? Please step this way.’
The man suddenly came to life, transferring the satchel to one hand and striding over with his eyes fixed on Jon. ‘DI Spicer?’
Jon nodded and the man thrust his hand out. With slight reluctance Jon offered his and felt it enthusiastically shaken up and down. ‘I hope we can get to the bottom of this together.’
Oh fuck, Jon thought. Headcase. He recalled how the Trafford officers upstairs reacted to the news a Mr Robson had turned up. Was it a smirk one had quickly concealed with his palm? Suddenly Jon was loath to show the man into an interview room, fearful of how long it would take to get him back out.
‘You have some evidence you believe will be of interest?’
The man tapped the satchel, then glanced down the corridor.
‘Where can we talk in private?’
Suppressing a sigh, Jon opened the nearest door. ‘Here will be fine.’ He motioned to a chair, then took the one on the other side of the table.
Robson low
ered himself into the seat, unzipped his overcoat enough to reveal a plain blue tie and cheap looking white shirt, then placed the satchel on the scratched surface of the desk.
‘They’ve struck again.’
‘Who would that be, Sir?’
‘The Satanists. They’ve destroyed another of God’s houses.’ Shit, I should have guessed it. Slightly manic stare. Too severe a side parting. Anorak. He’s bloody God Squad. The walls of the room seemed to inch in. ‘I can’t say at the moment. What evidence do you have?’ The man’s eyes bored into Jon’s and he had to lower his gaze. ‘Something in that satchel maybe?’
Robson undid the brass buckles and slid out a pile of documents. Topping them was a photo of three young men. They’d been snapped sideways on in the street, seemingly unaware their picture was being taken. All wore black clothes and tattoos were visible on the two in T-shirts. The one in front wore a fulllength leather coat and sunglasses. Jon noticed the cafe behind them. On The Seventh Day. The hippy-type place near the university. The lads were local.
‘Satan’s Inferno. These people have corrupted my son, lured him from the true path and, increasingly I suspect, sacrificed him to the Devil. They are, DI Spicer, evil. And you need look no further to find those responsible for last night’s crime.’
‘Sorry, they’re who?’
‘Satan’s Inferno. You’re not familiar with them? Or with the music known as Death Metal?’
Jon held his hands out. ‘Afraid not.’
Robson sat up, eyes on the Neal twin-deck recorder. ‘Does that machine play CDs?’
‘Sorry, it’s only capable of making tape recordings,’ Jon said, relieved the interview wasn’t about to branch off in another bizarre direction.
‘No matter,’ Robson replied. ‘I have a player in here.’
Jon’s eyes slid to the foam panelling stuck to the walls. How soon before I’m bouncing my head off it? From his bag Robson produced a Walkman and pair of headphones, the earpieces worn ragged at the edges. Then he retrieved a CD case from the bottom of the satchel and slid the CD into the machine.
