by Chris Simms
For fuck’s sake, what a pile of rubbish, thought Jon as his eyes roved to that day’s offering.
Transfiguration for All, Helena Hunt: Experience our medium as an ectoplasm mask forms over her face prior to her spirit guide making contact.
The Real Deal, Valerie Evans: Building on your understanding of Major and Minor Arcana, this class gives a deeper understanding of Tarot.
Jon thought of the white-haired woman who had just walked away from reception. She had been called Valerie. He wanted to hang his head in his hands. Why does my little sister always seem to get mixed up in such loads of shit? Looking again at the sheet, he saw the prices being charged.
‘All right Jon? You’re looking a little queasy.’
He handed the timetable over to Rick. ‘Check what these people are paying for their enlightenment.’
At just after three o’clock voices were heard from beyond the set of double doors on the other side of reception. The doors opened and a group of people began spilling out. Jon was shocked at their appearance. A handful looked like veggies, complete with shaved heads or dreadlocks, and there were a few goths dressed entirely in black. But, outnumbering them all, were elderly women in sensible M&S clothes, suited men in their thirties and at the front of the group, housewife types probably rushing off to collect their kids from school.
‘Jesus, I didn’t expect a crowd like that,’ Jon whispered.
‘Me neither,’ Rick replied, scanning the stream of pupils as they moved towards the exit.
The receptionist was replacing her phone. ‘Tristan is on his way.’
Rick waited for her to look away. ‘Tristan?’ he said from the corner of his mouth.
Jon suppressed a smile. Tristan Arkell. With a name like that, this should be interesting.
A few moments later the doors to the inner corridor opened and a large man stepped out. He was well over six foot tall, with greying curly hair that receded right back to expose a high, bulbous forehead. His face was fat and there was a piercing quality to his piggy eyes as they swept the room.
The white woollen turtleneck he wore failed to hide the feminine swells of flab on his chest and, as he stepped forward, Jon could see the chunkiness of his thighs, despite the baggy brown cords he was wearing.
‘Gentlemen, it’s always a pleasure to assist the police. How can I help?’
The man kept his hands crossed over his paunch. Too bad, Jon thought as he stood up. You’re shaking my hand whether you want to or not. As he held his right hand out there was a flicker of irritation in the other man’s eyes. His fingers unlaced and he gripped Jon’s hand. Soft, cool skin, the pressure kept light. A woman’s handshake.
‘DI Spicer, DS Saville. We were hoping you could answer a few questions about a couple of your students.’
Arkell inclined his head for a moment. ‘Of course. Please, come this way.’
They followed him through the double doors and down the corridor. A wooden plaque had been mounted on the door at the end: Tristan Arkell, Academy Head.
His office was spacious with a large rug covering the floor. Jon looked at the interlocking patterns, guessing it originated from Tibet or somewhere similar. Its pattern was replicated by the silk banners that adorned the walls in the few spaces not occupied by shelves of books. In the corner was an enormous leather chaise-longue.
‘Tea? I have camomile, green or mint.’
Jon glanced at the corner table. No coffee in sight. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’
Rick requested a green tea. After pouring out two cups, Arkell indicated they should sit in the chairs before his desk. ‘Pass on my regards to DCI Summerby when you see him.’
The comment, with its suggestion of cosy familiarity, caught Jon by surprise. He looked up, notebook half out of his jacket pocket. ‘You know DCI Summerby?’
Arkell smiled ambiguously. ‘We had an involvement on a case several years ago. The little girl who went missing as she walked home from Bury train station.’
Jon’s mind went back. The case was years old. What was her name? Anna? Amy?
‘Hannah Sherry,’ Arkell prompted. ‘She disappeared in
’Ninety-seven.’
‘That’s it, Hannah Sherry. Her body was never found. ‘You were involved in that case?’
‘Merely in an advisory capacity,’ Arkell said with a modest lowering of his eyes.
Jon caught Rick’s glance. ‘In what way?’
Arkell adjusted his weight, as if broaching the subject caused him some discomfort. ‘I have visions sometimes,’ he sighed.
‘And when Hannah vanished I received some very strong images of a red coat.’ He leaned forward. ‘She was wearing such a coat on the morning she disappeared.’
As the newspaper reports no doubt stated, Jon thought. He said nothing, knowing Arkell wouldn’t be able to resist spilling the story.
The man’s eyes were now shut. ‘I saw the coat in a landscape that was bumpy, the soil sandy. Little pathways. I could see little pathways crisscrossing it. And the smell of the ocean. Sitting on her coat was a toad. Small, but with very distinctive markings. I looked it up in a book. It was a natterjack toad.’ His eyes opened. ‘DCI Summerby was leading the case, so I contacted him with this information.’
Jon crossed his legs. This should be good. ‘And was it of any use to DCI Summerby?’
A pained expression came over Arkell’s face. ‘He was very sceptical at first. To the degree of even treating me as a suspect.
But, slowly, I like to think he came round to what I was saying. The natterjack toad is very rare you see. There are just a few colonies in the north west of England. One is the sand dunes at Formby. I was sure the girl was buried there.’
‘I believe no body was ever recovered,’ Jon said.
‘You’re right,’ Arkell sighed. ‘Other avenues of the investigation got priority. The dunes were never searched, at least not by the police. I myself have wandered them many times over the years, but without success.’
‘DCI Summerby retired at the end of last year,’ Jon said.
‘Oh? Well, if you ever speak to him, pass on my regards.’
I’ll be speaking to him all right, Jon thought, but purely about you. He looked around the room. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, but how do you become head of a Psychic Academy?’
Arkell’s lips twitched with the trace of a smile. ‘I’ve had a fascination with such matters for many years. Inevitable, really, for those with second sight. I started learning more and more, even travelling abroad to further my knowledge of the mind’s astonishing potential.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘I’ve spent time in the Himalayas of Nepal and the jungles of
Brazil. I’ve been to many other places too. Transcendentally.’ Oh please, Jon thought. ‘You must have had an understanding employer.’
‘I’d given up work by then.’
‘What did you do?’
Arkell shifted his weight on to his other buttock. ‘Property dealings.’
‘A surveyor?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘You bought and sold property though?’ He flicked a hand. ‘Assisted in.’
‘Residential properties?’
‘Mostly, yes.’
Estate agent. He was a bloody estate agent. ‘So, business doing well?’ His eyes strayed to the paper-thin monitor on the corner of the desk.
Arkell paused before answering. ‘Our courses are very popular, yes.’
Too right, Jon thought. Forty quid a pop, and none seem to last longer than a fortnight. Then all the pupils have to sign up again for the next stage. ‘I didn’t spot your name on the prospectus in reception.’
‘I tend to find my time absorbed by administrative duties, I’m sad to say. I do make time for some mentoring, but increasingly on a one-to-one basis.’
‘And how much do you charge for that?’
He waved a hand. ‘What I ask varies according to how much help the individual needs.’
‘We have an active donation programme. The primary aim of the Academy is to further spiritual development.’
Well, that told me fuck all, Jon thought. ‘We’re making enquiries into a person who appears to have gone missing. I gather he was a student here recently.’
‘His name?’ Arkell reached for his keyboard.
‘Peter Robson.’
The other man’s hand stopped. ‘Is this a trick question?’
‘Not at all,’ Jon replied.
Arkell’s eyes swivelled round. ‘Peter Robson’s father had to be escorted from these premises not one month ago. He, and a small group of Christian fundamentalists, have waged a campaign of hate on this establishment from the moment our doors opened.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Jon replied. ‘I wasn’t aware of that. What has he been up to?’
Arkell opened a drawer and dropped a bundle of letters on to the desk. Jon immediately recognised the spidery handwriting.
‘Hate mail promising our eternal damnation. They’ve picketed the front entrance, harassed staff and pupils as they come and go. I’ve had to take out a restraining order against him.’
You’re not the only one, Jon thought. ‘It seems odd his son would enrol here.’
‘I had no idea they were related until the father stormed in here accusing one of my tutors of corrupting Peter. That’s when we rang yourselves to have him removed.’
‘That would have been officers from Booth Street. We tend to work out of Longsight,’ Rick explained.
Arkell’s eyes narrowed and he turned to Jon. ‘DI Spicer. Was it you I heard on the radio yesterday morning? The church in Fairfield?’
Jon gave a nod.
‘Is Peter Robson involved in the incident then?’
He might be more than that, thought Jon, an image of the charred corpse in his head. ‘We’re merely making inquiries at the moment. Had Peter Robson completed his course when his father called in?’
Arkell typed in a password, then began clicking away on the mouse. ‘Let me see. Robson, Peter.’ He entered the name. ‘He first attended a tarot course, by Valerie Evans. Then he signed up for another of hers, The Way of Wicca, before going along to several one-off mediumship sessions.’
‘What do those involve?’ Jon asked.
‘It’s a session hosted by our resident medium, Helena Hunt. She brings communications from the spirit world to members of the audience.’
Jon remembered the timetable entry about an ectoplasm mask.
‘What? People wanting to speak with dead relatives?’ Rick asked.
‘Often,’ Arkell replied. ‘Though we discourage anyone from attending if their loved one has died within the last twelve months.’
The printer behind him began to whirr and Arkell rotated in his seat. ‘Yes, the Tarot and Wicca courses both lasted for two weeks,’ he said, examining a sheet of paper before placing it on the desk. ‘They had concluded well before the time his father turned up.’
Jon leaned forward to see where Arkell was tapping on the sheet. Robson’s name was halfway down the list, followed by an entry that read ‘Paid’. No grade or anything to indicate how he actually did on the course. Three names below Robson, Jon spotted Tavovitch’s name. ‘Serberos Tavovitch. How many courses has he attended?’
Arkell hesitated. ‘How will this information be used? There are data protection issues I have to consider . . .’
Jon looked him in the eye. ‘You’re all right. It’s a murder investigation.’
Arkell blinked at the word, then tapped on the keyboard again. As he turned to collect more print-outs, Rick slid the attendance list for The Way of Wicca course towards Jon. With a meaningful look, he pointed to a name near the bottom. Ellie Spicer.
Jon gave a quick shake of his head as Arkell swivelled back round. ‘Three other courses.’
Not interested in what the courses actually were, Jon scanned the names of the other students who’d shared a classroom with the singer. To his relief Ellie’s name didn’t feature on any. Examining The Way of Wicca print-out once more, another Christian name jumped out at him. Skye. Jon looked to the surname. Boothe. Ellie’s friend who worked in Magick.
‘Tavovitch is an enigmatic character,’ Arkell stated.
Jon sat back. ‘Do you have many of his type turning up here?’
‘His type?’
‘Satanists.’
‘Is Tavovitch a Satanist?’
‘There’s an inverted cross tattooed on his forehead. A pretty good indication wouldn’t you say?’
Arkell gave an odd movement of his head. Neither a nod or a shake. Somewhere in between. ‘There is a percentage of people who come here with negative intentions. We try to discourage people from pursuing that path. The Academy is all about positive development.’
‘White, not black magic?’ Rick interjected.
‘Positive, not negative energy,’ Arkell smiled back.
Yeah, yeah, Jon thought. Positive bank balance more like.
‘Would it be possible to speak with this Helena Hunt? I notice from your timetable she’s conducting a session today.’
Arkell glanced at a very expensive looking wristwatch. ‘Yes, she’s normally in by now to prepare the room. Let me see if I can find her.’
As soon as the office door shut, Rick turned to Jon. ‘Bloody hell,’ he whispered. ‘The guy’s assisted in a murder investigation.’
Jon shook his head. ‘There’s a difference between someone wandering into a station claiming he’s got information from the spiritual world and that information actually being used by us.’
‘You’re saying Arkell’s was a crank tip-off ?’
‘I’ll check with Summerby, but my experience of people like Arkell is they’re desperate for any sort of official acknowledgement of their power. So he tries to help out with a case. Then he can claim that, because what he had to say was noted by an officer, he assisted us in our enquiries. Great publicity for him. Only problem is it’s bollocks. Summerby probably just had his claims taken down so Arkell would bugger off.’
Rick glanced at the closed door. ‘Sneaky shit.’
As if on cue, Arkell opened the door and stepped back into the room. He was followed by a petite woman somewhere in her forties. Jon was taken aback by how ordinary she looked. Her hair was tied back and thick-rimmed glasses lent her a bookish air. Glancing down, he noted a white shirt collar poking over the neck of her mauve jumper. She could have worked in a library, or maybe a doctor’s reception.
‘Helena,’ Arkell announced. ‘These are the police officers.’
‘DI Spicer and my colleague, DS Saville,’ Jon said, getting to his feet. He realised that he towered over her. ‘Thank you for sparing us a few minutes.’
She gave a tight nod, hands clasped nervously before her. You certainly don’t look like a con artist, Jon thought. But then again, the best ones never do. Arkell slid over a chair from the other side of the room and they all sat down.
Picking up the print outs, Jon said, ‘Ms Hunt, you conducted a couple of one on one mediumship sessions with a Peter
Robson.’
Her voice was squeaky and small. ‘Yes.’
‘How did Peter seem to you?’
Her eyes slid downwards before suddenly lifting and meeting Jon’s. He didn’t like their beadiness. ‘He was in pain. Deep pain.’
‘Physically?’
‘No, his spirit. It was wounded. I sensed great upheaval in his life.’
‘What did he want to find out from his time with you?’ She glanced to Arkell for a split second.
Don’t look at that fat turd, Jon thought. ‘Ms Hunt? Was he trying to make contact with his dead mother?’
‘Yes.’
He carried on looking at her.
‘We didn’t achieve much on the first session. But my spirit guide discovered a very strong channel during the second.’
Naturally, thoug
ht Jon. Bad for business if you provide all the answers straight away. ‘What sort of information did you give to Peter?’
‘I cannot say.’
‘Ms Hunt.’ Jon leaned forward. ‘There’s a possibility Peter is linked to a murder. Any help you can give us would be greatly appreciated.’
‘I cannot say,’ she repeated, ‘because when my spirit guide speaks, I am in a state of trance. Unless the conversation is recorded, I have no knowledge of what’s been said through me.’
Oh fuck off, Jon nearly said. ‘Did Peter make a recording?’
‘No.’
‘When you came back round, how did he seem?’
‘Er . . .’
Jon followed her glance to Arkell, who gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head.
‘I suppose he was distressed.’
‘Why did you think that?’
‘He had been crying. But not through . . . not in a happy way.’
You heartless bitch, Jon thought. What sort of shit did you feed to the poor bloke?
‘I got the impression his mother is not in a nice place. He didn’t stay in the room for much longer and, as he left, he was muttering about pain. Pain caused by fire.’
Jon studied her. ‘Did you know his mother committed suicide?’
She looked horrified. ‘She set herself alight?’
‘No. Maybe Peter was talking about the fires of damnation?’ A hand went to her mouth. ‘Oh no, he shouldn’t believe that. There is no fire in the afterlife. We are simply reborn . . .’
‘Well,’ Jon cut in. ‘Maybe you could leave a note out for your spirit guide? Ask it not to mention fire and pain to a disturbed young man who probably believes his mother is languishing in hell.’
Her gaze was on the carpet as Jon gathered the print-outs.
‘Could I borrow these?’
Arkell squirmed. ‘The information is confidential—’
‘And it will remain so, you have my word.’
The man’s hands fluttered above the desk, then dropped to his lap. ‘It seems I must trust you.’
‘Thanks.’ Jon stood up.
