by Chris Simms
‘Now, Peter,’ Jon continued. ‘Did you ever spend time with
Skye Booth at the Psychic Academy?’ Robson didn’t move.
‘Peter, we’ve searched the tunnel you were hiding in. We’ve found the car jack’ – no response – ‘the petrol container.’ Jon saw a drool of spit begin to stretch down. It broke off and made a bead on the formica surface.
‘Peter, we know you were at the Swinton Methodist church on the sixth of this month and St Thomas’s in Pendlebury on the eleventh. The forensic evidence proves it.’
Robson placed a tip of a finger on the blob of spit and dragged it through. Slowly he began to draw a five-pointed star. Jon looked at Rick, who gave him a pained expression back.
‘Peter, we also found the notice from Ben Waters’ front door. Why were you trying to attack him? You stole his car, didn’t you? Were you planning on driving out to Spain?’
Robson didn’t react.
‘I don’t know if he can even hear us,’ Jon muttered. He leaned across the table, then brought his palm hard down on it. ‘Peter! Was Luke Stevens with you when you set fire to those churches? Were you with Luke at the Sacred Heart in Fairfield?’
Peter’s finger stopped. ‘Sacred Heart.’
Jon glanced at Rick. At bloody last. ‘Yes, Peter. The Sacred Heart. Someone was with Luke Stevens. Was it you? Was it Serberos Tavovitch?’
‘He’ll burn for it. Burn, burn, burn!’
‘Who Peter, who was there?’
‘Day.’
Jon frowned. ‘Day? Is that a name?’
‘Our day.’
‘Sorry Peter, I didn’t catch that.’
‘Our day this.’
‘Whose day is it? Your band’s? Serberos Tavovitch’s? Tristan
Arkell’s?’
‘Us give heaven.’
‘Give what? Who gave what?’
‘In art.’
‘In what?’
‘Who.’
‘Who. Who are you talking about, Peter? Someone who was there when Luke was killed?’
‘Father.’ Finally he looked up. Their eyes met and Jon felt himself flinch. They were so blank, so empty. ‘Father.’
‘Your father was at the church, Peter? He was there?’
Robson started rocking back and forth. ‘Oh yes, oh yes.’
The door opened and Buchanon stepped inside. He leaned towards the tape recorder. ‘DCI Buchanon has entered the room and is suspending this interview at twelve-seventeen p.m.’ He hit the stop button and turned to Jon. ‘This is going nowhere. The custody sergeant should never have agreed to book him in. We need a psychiatric assessment before continuing – nothing he’s said will be admissible until then.’
Admissible, Jon thought. Who gives a toss about admissible? We’re trying to find Skye. ‘I was getting somewhere, Sir.’
Buchanon waved a hand. ‘The guy’s a bloody teapot.’
Jon was on his feet. ‘He just said his dad was there. Didn’t you hear that?’
Buchanon sighed. ‘He was reciting the Lord’s Prayer, Jon. Backwards. Our day this, us give heaven in, art who Father.’
Jon turned slowly to Robson. Bollocks, his SIO was right.
‘Why would Henry Robson be burning churches and killing people?’ Buchanon added. ‘He’s a Christian fundamentalist, for Christ’s sa . . . he’s a fundamentalist.’
Jon searched for a reason. ‘What if he’d followed the members of Satan’s Inferno to the Sacred Heart? He was stalking them, that much we know.’ He glimpsed a theory and lunged at it.
‘What if he saw their ceremony? Maybe he tried to stop them and Luke Stevens got killed in the following struggle.’
‘Then, after the rest escape, he decides to torch the church?’
‘To cover his tracks. Destroy the evidence that proved he killed Stevens.’ He glanced at Rick, but his partner’s eyes were averted.
Buchanon shook his head. ‘Doesn’t add up, Jon. I’m sorry. Let’s resume this when the lad knows what bloody planet he’s on.’
‘Sir, we don’t have the time. Skye Booth has been missing for almost twenty-four hours. If she is still alive, how much longer have we got to find her?’
‘Jon, this interview isn’t happening. It’s a waste of all our time.’
Jon turned to Robson once again. He had now craned his head back, eyes cutting from one corner of the ceiling to the other. ‘Peter, did your dad know Skye Booth?’
Buchanon stepped forward, hands raised. ‘Jon, that’s enough.’
Jon stepped round the table and shook Robson’s shoulders.
‘Peter, who killed Luke Stevens that night? Was it your dad?’ Robson’s head rocked back and forth. ‘Burn him. Burn him.
Evil from us deliver. Burn him!’
Jon released him and turned to Buchanon. ‘Sir, please let me bring Henry Robson in.’
Buchanon’s eyes were still on Peter as his hands dropped.
‘OK, do it then.’
Chapter 28
The secretary at the printer’s where Henry Robson worked looked embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry officer,’ she said, replacing the phone. ‘No one’s able to locate him. His phone clicks straight through to voicemail, as does his mobile.’
‘But he turned up for work this morning?’ Jon’s elbows were on the counter and he realised it was making her more flustered.
‘I really need to know.’
She turned to the visitor’s book as if a clue might be contained there. ‘No one’s signed in to see him. His diary is empty. Perhaps he’s chosen to work from home.’
Jon led his officers away from the desk, out of the receptionist’s earshot. ‘I’ve got his address here,’ he whispered, reaching for his notebook as he turned to DC Murray. ‘Hugh, if you and Susan can stay here. I need to know Robson’s whereabouts on the dates when incidents have occurred. If he’s at home Rick and I will take him to the station. Let’s all meet up there and we can go over exactly what he’s been up to these last few days.’
As Jon pulled out of the carpark and accelerated away from Robson’s workplace, Rick’s phone beeped. He pulled it out and checked the message. ‘It’s from the incident room manager. That bishop’s assistant has finally returned my call. He’s left a number.’
‘Fuck him,’ Jon replied. ‘Peter Robson’s in custody. There’s a shit-load I’d like to speak to that priest about, but nothing that can’t wait.’
Ten minutes later they pulled up outside Henry Robson’s house, an immaculate looking semi on a sterile Seventies development. An Audi estate was parked in the driveway. Rick pointed to the metal symbol stuck below the rear window. ‘A fisher of men.’
Jon raised his eyebrows. ‘Is that what those things are? I thought it was something to do with the car owner’s star sign. Pisces.’
‘No, it’s a Christian thing.’
‘Should have guessed.’
They walked round the vehicle and up to Robson’s front door. The faint sound of monk’s chanting could just be heard from inside the house. ‘He’s got that bloody tape on again,’ Jon whispered, pressing the button. a two-tone bell chimed, tinny and artificial. They waited a few seconds and Rick tried again. Jon then started banging on the frosted glass with his knuckles. Slow and steady.
A door opened somewhere inside and a hazy figure approached. ‘Yes?’ There was a trace of fury in the voice.
‘Mr Robson, it’s DI Spicer. I have some very good news for you.’
‘I’m . . .’ His voice suddenly lost its harshness. ‘I’m feeling a little under the weather right now. May I call you later?’
‘It’s about your son, Sir.’
‘Peter? What is it?’
‘If you wouldn’t mind opening the door.’
A hand moved up and the door swung inwards a few inches. Through the narrow gap, Jon saw that Henry Robson’s hair was dishevelled. A sheen of sweat made his forehead shine. Glancing down, Jon noticed the man’s shirt was flecked with bright red dots. ‘Is that blood, Sir?’<
br />
Robson tried brushing at a larger spot. His knuckles were an angry red. ‘Er, I’m fixing something in the garage. I caught my hand.’
Jon tried to see the man’s fingers again, but he’d moved them from sight. ‘We’ve found your son, Sir. He’s at the station right now. In need of a good rest, but otherwise he should be fine.’
Robson looked nonplussed. ‘Peter?’
‘That’s right.’
‘He should be fine?’
‘More or less.’ Jon stepped back and gestured towards the road. ‘We can drive you there right now.’
‘That’s a little, a little awkward.’ He glanced over his shoulder.
‘You’re sure it’s him?’
Jon studied Robson’s face. The colour had gone out of it.
‘Certain.’
‘I can drive myself. Just give me a few minutes.’ As he reached up to re-close the door, Jon saw his fingers. No skin was broken. He moved back on to the front step. ‘Sir, in cases like these, we prefer to drive the relative. You’re obviously emotional, it’s safer that way.’
They stared at each other for a few seconds before Robson nodded. ‘Very well. I’ll just change this shirt.’
As soon as the door closed, Jon looked at Rick. ‘His hand’s not bleeding.’
‘What do you reckon then?’
‘I don’t know.’ He stepped to the side and, as Rick moved back down the drive towards Robson’s vehicle, he examined the garage door. It was a pale blue expanse of metal with a handle at the bottom to pull it up and over. ‘The music’s coming from in there,’ Jon murmured, leaning his head towards it as the chants rose and fell.
Rick spoke from behind him. ‘Jon, there’s blood on the back seat of the car.’
He was about to turn around when the choir’s voices died away. Something metallic clinked. He pressed his ear against the cold surface and could just make out the ragged sound of a person fighting for breath before the next song began. ‘He’s got someone in there.’
Jon grabbed the handle and yanked. The door began to tilt and he pulled it up, extending his arms so it slid back onto its ceiling runners.
Daniel Humphries was hanging by his wrists from a roof girder. The length of chain binding his hands together clinked again as he revolved slowly round. Blood was streaming down his face and over the insulation tape sealing his mouth. Some was falling from his chin into a large puddle on the floor, some was snaking down his throat and across his naked torso before disappearing into the top of his leather trousers.
‘Christ,’ Rick whispered, stepping forward as Humphries dragged in more air.
They heard the sound of Henry Robson racing down the stairs. Jon moved quickly to the side door that led in from the house and stepped behind it. Moments later Robson burst in. Jon grabbed his wrist and twisted it round in one swift movement. His fingers then sought out the other man’s thumb and bent it across towards the little finger. With the lock successfully applied, he attempted to move Robson away from the wall of shelves and anything he might try to grab.
The other man braced his legs and turned his head. ‘Let go of me!’ he demanded.
Jon rammed the heel of his other hand between Robson’s shoulder blades, forcing him to his knees.
‘Plea . . .’ The word ended in a shriek of pain as Jon increased the pressure a fraction more.
‘Like giving it out, but you can’t fucking take it, can you? Now, where is Skye Booth?’ Jon snarled.
Robson’s chin was pressed against his chest, eyes screwed tightly shut as the breath hissed from his lips. Jon pressed on his thumb a touch more and felt the joint beginning to give.
‘Where is she?’
Rick was over by Daniel, arms wrapped round his thighs, trying to take some pressure off his purple, swollen wrists. ‘Help me Jon, for fuck’s sake.’
Jon turned back to Robson’s grimacing face, forced him on to his stomach, and jammed his face into the concrete of the garage floor. Glancing back at the shelves, he saw a packet of plastic sack ties. Like the ones used to restrain the prisoners in Guantanamo Bay. He grabbed one, looped it round Robson’s wrists and yanked. The plastic teeth clicked as Jon bent forward. ‘I see you even twitch and you’ll wish this day had never begun.’
Robson remained motionless.
Jon jumped to his feet and followed the length of chain to where it was attached to a strut in the side wall. The bloody monks were starting up again and he pulled the plug from the CD player, then looked over his shoulder. ‘Got his weight?’
Rick nodded and Jon tugged the crow bar from the links. The chain unravelled with a sound like thunder. As Rick sank to his knees, the weight of Humphries safe in his arms, Jon took out his phone and called for help.
A few minutes later an ambulance appeared at the mouth of the cul-de-sac and Jon waved it over to Robson’s drive. Once the paramedics had assessed Dan and lifted him in to the rear of the ambulance, Jon directed them back out. The lad, according to the driver, was lucky to be alive. The vehicle swung round then set off towards the main road, its siren sounding a few moments later. As the sound rapidly receded, Jon heard the shrill ring of his mobile coming from his jacket.
‘Hello, Sir,’ he said, marching over to his car where Robson was sitting stiffly in the back while Rick kept careful watch by the side of the vehicle.
‘Is this report from the radio room correct?’ Buchanon’s voice buzzed.
‘It is,’ Jon replied.
‘Henry Robson kidnapped and assaulted Daniel Humphries?’
‘Beat the shit out of him. Literally.’
‘Jesus Christ. He had Humphries hanging by a chain?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘No sign of Skye Booth though?’
‘No. But he could have a lock-up near here, or access to an empty property. Anything.’
‘Bring him in then. Let’s give him a grilling and see.’
A grilling? Right, Jon thought. You’ll ask him politely and he’ll tell you absolutely nothing. ‘We’ll be there soon.’ He flipped the phone shut, desperately trying to think. ‘Buchanon says we’re to bring him straight in.’
‘Let’s go then.’ Rick stepped towards the passenger seat, then looked across the top of the car when he realised his partner hadn’t moved. ‘Jon?’
‘He’ll blow it Rick. Robson won’t say a thing and Skye will be found in a cellar days from now, starved to death.’
Rick closed his eyes. ‘What are you saying?’
Jon glanced into the car. He’d removed the wrist restraint and Robson was protectively cupping his injured thumb like it was a prize budgie. It would be so easy to get what they needed to know out of him.
‘Jon, you are not thinking that we . . .’
He looked into Rick’s eyes and knew his partner would never allow him to do it. He’s right, Jon thought. Cool down, use your head. ‘Let’s just take our time driving back. See what we can get him to say before Buchanon takes over.’
Rich looked faintly sick as Jon opened the driver’s door. He pulled out of Robson’s close, but rather than turn towards the M60 and the fast route back to Longsight, he turned right. The A666 soon merged with the A6 and Jon followed it in silence, aimlessly heading towards the city centre while he racked his brains for something that would provoke Robson into talking.
Rick reached for the radio, found Classic FM and turned it up loud. As Mars from Holts’s: The Planets made the inside of the vehicle vibrate, he leaned across to Jon. ‘Where the fuck are we going?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘This is crazy. Utterly crazy.’
‘We’ve got to try something.’
‘None of this will be admissible in court. You’re breaking every . . . we’re breaking every rule. Our careers, everything, will be fucked.’
‘Ten minutes, Rick. Fifteen. That’s all this is costing us. Come on, let’s give it a crack.’
Rick crossed his arms. ‘Go on then. I want no part of it.’
&
nbsp; Jon kept going, mind blank as to what approach to take. Robson was trying to say something. He killed the music.
‘I need a doctor,’ Robson bleated.
‘Yeah?’ Jon replied. ‘Serberos Tavovitch? He’s really called Daniel Humphries and he’s on the way to see a doctor right now. The paramedics reckon he has concussion, a broken jaw and several smashed ribs. Probable kidney damage too, judging by the blood, shit and piss in his trousers. You want to see a doctor? Tell us where to find Skye Booth.’
‘I haven’t touched her.’ He raised his injured hand. ‘Why are you doing this? I’m on your side.’
Slowly, Jon shook his head.
Robson sank back against the seats. ‘But Tavovitch confessed. He burned those churches down.’
‘You were torturing him. He’d have admitted to shagging the
Virgin Mary if you’d told him to.’
Robson’s eyes flashed. Unbelievable, Jon thought. A touch of blasphemy and the bloke instantly reacts. He focused on the road ahead. They were now approaching the Mancunian Way. Wasn’t there a big church near here? St George’s, that was it. Empty for years, it had recently been deconsecrated and turned into a development of luxury flats. As they approached the roundabout, the building came into view. Scrubbed clean by the property developer, the pale stone seemed to glow in the sunlight, turrets and spires looking as though they could have been carved from marble. He pointed towards it. ‘Does it bother you? Things like that?’
Robson’s eyes slid to the side.
‘Your religion is dying,’ Jon stated, pulling sharply across, cutting up the car behind. Their vehicle bumped violently as he mounted the kerb and skidded to a halt on the grass in front of the building. Rick stared at him in disbelief.
‘Executive apartments,’ Jon announced. ‘The people living in there don’t give a toss about the fact it was once a church. Except, of course, when viewed in the context of their investment. Those stained-glass windows are now a novelty feature for impressing their dinner guests. The church is abandoning its properties left, right and centre. The organisation you so love is becoming a giant provider of housing for pigeons.’
As cars passed by in a steady stream, Robson shrugged. ‘The church is weak. Its leaders are pathetic. While they pander to the masses, people are bound to turn away. Only once the true word of God is heard will people realise the error of their ways.
