by Chris Simms
Jon was sure there was a trace of pleasure in his voice.
‘However, not necessarily resulting from an external impact,’ the pathologist continued, glancing at them with a glint in his eye. ‘When a head burns, steam and gases build up inside the skull. Often it will burst, usually along the suture lines joining the skull’s plates. The damage I can see could be as a result of that process, or debris falling or a blow from another person.’
‘So you’ll need to conduct a PM before you can say for certain?’ Buchanon sounded disappointed.
‘Yes. I can also check the lungs and airways. If there’s any evidence of smoke inhalation, the person was alive after the fire was lit. If not, they could well have been bashed over the head, then placed on the pile of combustible materials post mortem.’
‘OK,’ Buchanon turned round on his foot plate. ‘Just need to work out who the poor bastard was.’
Jon surveyed the top end of the church. Just visible on the blackened walls behind the altar was a series of symbols, including a couple of inverted crosses. His mind went to the tattoo on Serberos’ forehead. What if Mr Robson was on to something with his theory about his son being murdered? He looked at the corpse’s claw-like feet and sighed. It would be worth calling the man and asking him for a DNA sample.
Back in the church car park Buchanon’s phone began to ring. Jon watched his senior officer disappear into the mobile home that was the fire service’s incident command unit to take the call in private. Jon looked to the crime scene unit, a far smaller caravan with Greater Manchester Police badges stuck on the side. He could see Nikki Kington through the back window.
‘Knock, knock,’ Jon said quietly, poking his head through the open door.
She looked up. ‘DI Spicer.’
God, thought Jon, she’s still angry with me. ‘Can I come in?’
She shrugged, continuing to sort out evidence forms. Jon stepped inside. ‘How are you doing?’
‘Fine thank you.’
‘It’s good to see you back at work.’ She didn’t answer.
‘What did you get up to on your time off ? I tried ringing you a few times.’
Now she looked up, fixing him with a hostile stare. ‘Attended quite a lot of counselling sessions actually. Didn’t really feel like chatting with you after them.’
Jon felt himself flinch. ‘Because of that night . . .’
‘Yes Jon, because of the absolute sheer terror you put me through.’
He took a step closer. ‘Nikki, I’m sorry. If I could have known what was going to happen—’
She waved a hand. ‘Forget it. I’m trying to.’ Raising her chin, she ran both hands roughly through her straggly hair, as if trying to yank the remnants of that terrible night from her brain. Jon looked at the smoothness of her throat, the faint blue lines just visible beneath the white skin. But then an image of Derek Peterson appeared, his windpipe slashed to ribbons by those claws.
She sighed. ‘The bloody memory still haunts me though. Doesn’t it you?’
He looked down, unable to answer.
‘What?’ He heard Nikki say. ‘Are you having nightmares too?’
He looked out the window, watching the fire fighters as they sipped their tea. He thought of the night sweats that regularly soaked him, of waking up with both hands clamped over his face, trying to cover his eyes from the sights he’d seen. ‘Kind of.’
He felt Nikki’s hand on his arm. ‘Jon, have you seen a counsellor, talked about it with anyone? Alice?’
His wife’s name twisted in Nikki’s throat. He turned to her, a dry laugh catching in his own. ‘How can I tell her, Nikki? Even if I could, I wouldn’t want to. I don’t want it mentioned. Just to speak about it would . . . pollute my home. I don’t want that.’
Her eyes had softened and he turned away, not wanting her sympathy. Not wanting to be a victim.
‘Jon, you mustn’t keep this inside. Not something so traumatic. What about my counsellor? She’s very good.’
Jon placed a hand over hers, then gently removed it from his arm. ‘I’m OK. My career prospects are hardly brilliant without it getting round that I need therapy. I’ll deal with it.’
She flipped her hand over, keeping hold of his fingers. Squeezing them. ‘So you’ll just force it all down. It doesn’t work, Jon. It creeps back. At night, in your dreams. It does, doesn’t it?’
Her voice had a whining note. Or was it the hopeful tone of a fellow sufferer seeking solace? ‘I’m all right.’ He pulled his hand free and retreated to the door, knowing she’d seen through his lies.
‘Then talk to me. Let’s meet for a drink. How about that? Jon?’
He paused in the doorway to look back at her. God, the prospect was tempting. Just to open up and share it all with someone. He stepped from the caravan without a word.
Chapter 7
Jon scrubbed at his nails once again. The damned smell from that fire. Would nothing shift it? He washed his fingers under the tap and held them to his nose. Finally the acrid aroma had been obliterated.
He looked down at Holly who was sitting on the kitchen floor. The way she stared silently up at him caused a wave of affection to flood his chest and the grime of the day was forgotten.
‘What are you doing down there?’ he asked in a singsong voice.
She flapped her arms in response, the action causing her to slide forwards fraction by fraction across the smooth lino floor.
‘Come here.’ He crouched down and lifted her up so she dangled in front of his face. ‘Give me a kiss.’
He brought her closer and pressed his lips against her cheek. So smooth. So perfect. He plonked her back on the floor and looked at his wife. ‘When’s Ellie due?’
‘I said to come round at eight. The food will be ready for about half past.’
Jon glanced at the clock. Quarter to. ‘I’ll look over some bits and pieces before she gets here.’ He took Robson’s dossier from the kitchen table and went through to the sitting room. Punch was lying in the corner, and as Jon slumped into his armchair, the dog raised its head. ‘You OK, stupid?’
Punch’s brown eyes swivelled upwards and the stump of his tail wagged briefly. Jon looked at the upper page of the dossier, a print-out of the band’s homepage from a website called myspace, whatever the hell that was. Skeletons with red eyes sat amid flames springing up from the large gothic letters, spelling out ‘Satan’s Inferno’. Bunch of freaks, Jon thought, putting the sheet of paper aside.
Next was a close-up of the lead singer. An address had been added in biro, the letters precise and uniform. Below that was a heading that read, ‘Exits’, followed by a list of dates and times. Jesus, Robson was really stalking him. No wonder the guy was taking out a restraining order against him.
Next sheet was a photo of another band member. Ed Padmore, drummer. He was obviously in his early twenties, wearing the obligatory black clothes, eyes hidden by a thick mop of unruly hair.
Jon flicked to the next sheet. A photo of the third band member, Alec Turnbull. Support guitarist, joined fifteenth May. Again, he was wearing black, hair down to his shoulders. Jon studied his face. Twenty years old, if that. Jon guessed the slightly pained expression was meant to be that of an artist in torment, but the guy was too young to pull it off. He looked more like an anguished teenager.
He went to the next sheet. A building by a car park. Their recording studio, according to Robson’s notes. More dates and times. Occasions when they’d rehearsed, Jon guessed.
Below that was a gig schedule, mostly venues around Manchester. Night and Day Café. Jabez Clegg. Band on the Wall, Rockworld. Jon scanned for any dates in May. Diabolic on the twenty-seventh. That was tonight.
Punch’s head went up and a second later Jon heard a key turning in the front door. The dog jumped to his feet and padded over to the doorway.
‘It’s me!’ his younger sister called out. Punch’s tail bobbed to and fro. ‘Hello Punch, how are you?’ Ellie glanced into the room. ‘Hi Jon, heard you on the radio earli
er. Did they really find a body in that church?’
‘Yup.’ He placed the file on the coffee table.
‘So was it a sacrifice by devil worshippers?’ He crossed his arms and gave her a look.
She wrinkled her nose in disappointment. ‘OK, I know the score. You can’t say.’
‘So how are you anyway?’
‘Not so bad,’ she replied, already heading towards the kitchen. Next thing he heard was the sound of cooing. When he entered the kitchen a minute later Ellie was sitting down, Holly on her lap. He looked at his sister.
Brown hair was held back by a big purple band. Her pale green cardigan was open and Jon could see a fold of flesh poking out of the gap between her white T-shirt and jeans. She had always been prone to putting on weight. Though it bothered her, Jon thought her rounded features made her beautiful.
‘Ah, she’s gorgeous,’ Ellie said, squeezing the baby close. Alice was smiling. ‘Well, you just made it. It’s time for her bed. Come on darling.’
Ellie lifted Holly to Alice’s outstretched hands. Jon grabbed one more kiss as she was carried past him, then sauntered over to the table and looked in the Bargain Booze carrier bag his sister had brought with her. A bottle of white, a bottle of red and a DVD case. He lifted it out and read the words Ellie had scrawled on the side. ‘Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Christ Ellie, aren’t you a bit old for ghost and ghoulie stuff ?’
She cocked her head. ‘Actually, Alice asked me to bring it. She missed last night’s episode, too.’
Jon sighed with resignation as he examined the bottles. ‘Shall I crack one open?’
‘Go on then.’
As Jon corked the white he wondered how to bring up the subject of the family argument. ‘Spoken to Mum recently?’
‘No. I’ve been rushing round a bit,’ Ellie replied warily.
Jon nodded, not believing her. ‘She called last night. I think she’s ready to make up.’
Ellie laughed bitterly. ‘Make up? Yeah, right. You know she’ll never be able to accept any of us following another religion.’
Us? Don’t include me in this, Jon thought, I couldn’t give a shit what anybody believes. It’s all a load of bollocks. ‘Maybe,’ he replied, handing her a glass, ‘but you could ring her back. She’s upset. Worried too, I imagine.’
Ellie took a sip, her eyelids lowering slightly as she swallowed.
‘I’ll give her a buzz.’
Job done, thought Jon with relief. ‘Ever heard of a local group called Satan’s Inferno?’
‘Yeah. Death Metal aren’t they?’
‘Have you ever listened to their music?’
Ellie’s expression soured. ‘Only on the radio. It’s so violent, so negative. Couldn’t stand it.’
‘They’re into magic and all that aren’t they?’
Ellie glanced at him. ‘If you’re implying their music is linked to my beliefs, you are very, very wrong.’
Jon held up a hand. ‘Sorry. I just thought, you know, because they go on about hating Christians and the church.’
‘I don’t hate the church.’
‘You weren’t that in favour of it at Mum’s the other day.’ Ellie winced. ‘I only came out with that stuff to get back at her. She can be so bloody sanctimonious. I’m not anti-church.’ She paused. ‘Well, I am a bit, but I don’t want it destroyed like Satanists do.’
‘Destroyed?’
She placed a forefinger on the base of her glass and began to rotate it slowly round. ‘Satanism is simply an inversion of Christianity. They believe everything Christians do. They accept the duality of good and evil. In their minds Christ exists, but rather than revere him, they believe he must be fought. They worship Satan and so turn the cross upside down, substitute black for white, spell out the names of deities in reverse. Their whole belief system is locked into that of Christianity.’
Jon leaned back against the edge of the work surface. ‘So this
Wicca thing you follow . . .’
‘Is far, far older than Christianity. It’s a pagan set of beliefs that sees no division between good and evil. Having said that, I think there’s a lot to commend Christianity. It’s problem is most of the people who promote it.’
Alice walked back into the room. ‘People like your mum, you mean?’
‘To an extent, yes. How can she be so intransigent? As I said,
Wicca is a far older religion than Christianity, but it doesn’t try to dismiss every other belief.’
Alice removed a casserole dish from the oven and the smell of curry filled the room. ‘Her hands are tied aren’t they? Isn’t it in the Catholic catechism? Any other religion but theirs results in eternal damnation for its followers.’
‘So all Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, Animists, Taoists, Wiccans – we’re all misguided, wrong, deluded. A few hundred years ago we were heretics, and we all know what the church did to them. It’s such an unreasonable stance to take. No wonder it’s been the cause of so much suffering.’
Jon was taken aback. His sister had so many new viewpoints, new words even. Sanctimonious. Intransigent. It didn’t sound like her speaking. He thought about her new friend, the girl from the shop on Oldham Street. ‘Why the decision to follow this Wicca religion?’
Ellie frowned in contemplation. ‘It found me really. I’ve been feeling a kind of emptiness for a long time. Then I read an article about this college that’s opened up in the Northern Quarter. The Psychic Academy.’
Jon lowered his glass. The place Henry Robson mentioned. Where his son fell in with the singer from Satan’s Inferno.
‘It offers courses in psychic development, that sort of stuff,’ Ellie continued. ‘I went along, read some of their literature, signed up for a course and that’s where I met Skye.’
‘The one who works in this New Age shop?’ Alice asked.
‘That’s right. We got talking about pagan religions. So much of it connected with me.’ She pressed a hand against her sternum. ‘On a really deep level.’
Jon cringed inwardly. Why did she have to be so airy-fairy? His thought was broken as Ellie started speaking again.
‘Society is so driven by greed. People are obsessed with material things – and they’ve lost their affinity with the natural world as a result. We’re all judged on our ability to purchase, to consume. Look at the misery it’s generating. People are in debt, trying to keep up, as if buying things can ever lead to long-term happiness. It’s absurd.’
She took a sip of wine, then purposefully placed her glass on the table. Get ready, thought Jon. Here comes the profound bit.
‘Well, I want to assign more value to myself than just a bloody credit rating. Wicca gives me that sense of worth, of fulfilment.’
‘You’re talking about spiritual needs,’ Alice said, pouring herself a glass.
‘I suppose I am.’
‘Isn’t your mum doing the same thing by going to church?’
‘Yes, but churches don’t have that meaning for me. The organisation is nothing more than a real estate conglomerate. Their buildings are closed in, stifling. Joyless hymns, droning sermons, cloying clouds of incense, the relentless organ music. It all separates you from what’s important. I want to be outside, feeling the grass beneath my feet, breathing clean air, in touch with nature. That’s what life’s about. That’s why I’m joining a coven.’
Jon coughed in mid-sip and felt wine trickling into his nasal passages as he swiftly put his glass down. Sniffing loudly, he wiped a tear from his eye. ‘You what?’
‘I’m joining a coven.’
‘When?’
‘In four nights’ time. On May Eve, or Beltane as it’s known to Wiccans.’
‘And what happens on Beltane?’ said Jon, sampling the word as if it was foreign.
‘We celebrate the coming of spring and summer, the coming regeneration.’
Regeneration, thought Jon. I hope this isn’t heading where I think it is. ‘How do you celebrate it?’
‘A bonfire will be lit. The
re’s dancing and some singing.’ Jon could tell she was being deliberately vague. ‘A bonfire?’ Ellie nodded. ‘Fires are an essential element of Pagan celebrations.’ He caught an impish look in her eye. ‘You need a bit of warmth if you’re outside. Naked.’
‘What?’
She grinned. ‘Oh come on Jon, you were asking for that. I can see it in your face. You think this is all about sex.’
‘I don’t know what it’s about. All I know is that you’re becoming a witch.’
‘A Wiccan. The word witch carries too many negative connotations.’
‘And this Skye person. She’s a Wiccan too?’
‘She is.’
‘And she’s a member of this coven?’
‘Maybe.’
The word echoed in Jon’s head. Maybe. ‘And she’s introducing you to all the magic stuff ?’
Ellie frowned. ‘All the magic stuff ? I’ll be learning how to connect with the life force of the planet. Mother Nature if you will.’
Jon shook his head. Fuck, Mum is going to flip.
‘What’s the problem Jon? You think I’m losing the plot?’
‘No, I’m thinking Mum will lose the plot when she hears this. Tapping into the planet’s life force. Sounds like a load of hocus-pocus to me.’
‘As opposed to Mum, who goes to a large cold building and sends telepathic thoughts to a bearded old bloke who lives up in the sky?’
Jon held up his hands. ‘Hang on. I didn’t say I believed in
Mum’s stuff either.’
Ellie leaned forwards. ‘But you don’t believe in the planet’s life force.’
‘Planet’s life force. Come on Ellie, what do you expect me to say?’
‘Remember the ouji board we had as kids? That one made by
Waddington’s, I think.’
‘Yeah,’ Jon replied, seeing a brown board marked out with the letters of the alphabet in a shallow arc. One to ten across the base, yes and no in the middle.
‘Who was pushing the glass round it?’
‘You were.’
‘Rubbish Jon, my finger was barely touching that glass.’
‘So Dave was.’
‘Dave freaked out when he took his finger off the glass and it still carried on moving. And you insisted that you weren’t pushing it.’
