by P. R. Black
‘So who’s Miguel?’ Rosie said.
‘Someone who can tell us a bit about the history of this place.’
‘Christ,’ Rosie spluttered. ‘Guidebooks were available down at the bistro. They weren’t cheap, I grant you, but better than dragging some poor bloke up here.’
‘You’re looking for the mask,’ Bernard intoned, stepping forward. ‘Somewhere among the stones.’
‘Correct. The mask, or something like it.’
‘I’ll take a few shots, just in case we miss something.’ He produced a compact digital camera and proceeded to photograph the stones, flitting round them like a great gannet.
‘Bit hard to carve a face into rock, I’d imagine,’ Rosie said. ‘Our guy must have been patient to do it in the woods, that’s for sure. But at least he could hide in there. There’s not much cover, up here. Maybe not so much time, either.’
‘Remember, this whole town is fairly new,’ Becky said. ‘The monument is too, though it looks like it’s been here for decades. If our guy killed the Ramirez family and dumped the bodies up here, there would only have been standing stones here at that time. And no tourism.’
‘Bit of a leap of deduction, that,’ Rosie mumbled. ‘You want to see if he’s carved a face into the rocks?’
‘It’s worth a look at them, sure. But that’s not the real reason we’re here. We’re here to see Miguel.’
‘Miguel?’ Rosie’s eyebrows rose above her sunglasses.
‘Yep. Miguel. In fact, I can see him coming now.’
Rosie shaded her eyes and squinted down another path, on the opposite side of the hill they’d just climbed. Two figures became visible in the rising heat of the day, churning up the red dust as they approached.
Becky raised her hand. Miguel raised his head, and barked in response, before his handler waved back.
36
Miguel’s handler, Maria, had been harder to approach than she had been to bribe. Becky had to be patient, contacting her several times via email before a meeting was proposed. Several other handlers in the area had told Becky to sling her hook; one or two had threatened to have her arrested. To be fair to Maria, the promise of cracking a case seemed to entice her more than the pledge of a generous donation to a local community fund.
She was a heavily built girl, but not fat, and surprisingly English in appearance despite her thick local accent on the telephone. With frizzy blonde hair tied back and dusty dark green hiking trousers, with the hems tucked into thick socks peering out over her boots, she might have been a Pollyanna-ish scout leader, easier to love than to mock.
Miguel pulled heavily at the leash, but always came to heel with one sharp cluck from Maria.
‘Police dog?’ Rosie asked.
‘Cadaver dog,’ Bernard mumbled. ‘Got to be, right?’
Becky nodded. ‘It’s a hunch more than anything else. But if our guy’s got a thing for standing stones, ancient monuments and ceremonial sites, there’s a good chance he’ll have left a body or two here. The Ramirez family lived about thirty miles down the valley. Vanished in 1992, during the European football championships. I think the site was too close for him to resist. Probably he picks the killing grounds first, then the families.’
Becky intercepted Maria, shook hands and then petted the dog. Miguel was a black and white springer spaniel, bouncy and utterly indefatigable, as all springer spaniels are. Maria understood what was required; Becky stood back and watched as both dog and handler made their way round the stones.
‘Surely any blood or other evidence has long gone,’ Rosie said.
Becky shook her head. ‘It’s bodies I’m looking for, not blood. They’ll be here. Maria is with the police – she’s Miguel’s trainer. Cadaver dogs can find remains decades after they were buried. There’s still soft earth somewhere around the summit. If there’s some bodies out here, Miguel will sniff them out. And we know our guy likes standing stones.’
‘The stones…’ Bernard said. ‘Is that where he did the deed? With your family?’
Becky shot him a look; it was the first time Rosie had seen her so much as flinch when it came to the details of the case. ‘In a manner of speaking,’ she said.
‘So it was a ritual, then? Some kind of cult thing?’
‘I’m fairly sure of it. He behaved in a ritualised fashion, laid out the knives in a formalised way. I thought he’d uttered some sort of incantation or a spell, like an offering to Satan in an ugly language. I know now it was an Eastern European language. If he was praying, it was in his own language. He might even have been speaking to god, for all I know.’
Bernard backed away from them, shielding the glare on a palm-sized tablet computer. He looked from the screen to the sky, then turned forty-five degrees before repositioning the tablet.
‘What have you got?’ Becky asked.
Bernard waved her away in irritation; after a few moments he muttered, ‘You’ve got me thinking. These stones and some of the others near the death sites are astronomical in origin – a way of marking the passing seasons, the solstices. Some of them have a lunar significance, or something relating to the night sky.’ He gestured towards a large stone at the edge of the circle. ‘If that’s marking the position of the North Star, which should appear right here, tonight—’ he gestured with his hand ‘—then there could be something in that.’
Becky nodded, and scribbled a note in her pad. ‘It’s as good a link as we can find, I guess. It’s worth looking to see if there’s any detailed pattern followed.’
Rosie asked, ‘You reckon he’s on a lunar cycle then? Some sort of worship linked to the stars? So he’s like a druid?’
‘Maybe. But ultimately, I don’t think it’s relevant. He’s not really motivated by the stars, the moon, or little green men.’
‘What is he motivated by?’ Bernard asked, turning another ninety degrees.
‘Humiliating, raping and decapitating people. Specifically, women. But it seems anyone will do, at a pinch. He’s a sexual psychopath, so far beyond normal they’d have to invent a term to cover him. Star charts, ley lines, or anything else is just window dressing. It doesn’t even stretch to an excuse.’ Becky capped her pen and smiled sadly. ‘And that isn’t a theory. That, I guarantee you, is the truth.’
Miguel barked, skirting round one of the smaller stones at the back of the circle. Becky ran towards them, her heart pounding.
‘Has he got something?’ she asked Maria, as the dog sniffed hard at the stone.
Maria frowned. ‘No… sometimes this happens. He can sniff out something, like a rabbit or another dead dog. But there’s nothing here. He would have made it obvious.’
Becky checked herself, clenching and unclenching her fists in frustration. A hand touched her shoulder. Becky flinched for the second time that afternoon.
‘Sorry,’ Rosie said, withdrawing her hand. ‘You have to admit it was a long shot. I suppose it was worth a go.’
Becky ignored her. ‘Keep searching,’ she called over to Maria, as she let the dog off its leash. ‘All the way round. Every single stone.’
‘Of course,’ Maria said. ‘But just so you know… don’t expect anything.’ She jogged after the dog.
A sudden gust of wind threatened to tear Rosie’s huge hat off her head, and she clamped it down tight. ‘Surely the local police department would have searched all over for missing persons? Even up here in the hills? First place they’d check after the sea, I’d imagine. Remote place, this, at the time.’
‘You’d imagine. As I said, it’s just a hunch,’ Becky replied. She folded her arms, chilled for a moment by the breeze.
Bernard stared at his screen; he had barely moved save for flickering movement at his fingertips. ‘What date did the Ramirez family buy the farm?’
‘They vanished on July 2nd, 1992.’
Bernard clicked the touchpad again, then became still, almost as if he’d never spoken.
‘Funny. It’s showing that Mars came close to the earth round about th
at time. Could be something. Could be nothing.’
Miguel began to bark. The dog leapt in the air with each yelp, ears splayed in the sudden breeze. The animal had followed its nose far beyond the standing stones. As Becky, Rosie and Bernard broke into a run, stirring pale dust as high as their heads, they saw that the dog had stopped in front of the immense stone sign welcoming visitors to the new town in the valley below.
37
The sun had long disappeared, but the hillside was alive with lights and colour. At first some cars had arrived with their emergency lights, streaking the arid slopes an effervescent blue. Then the wavering white spotlight of a helicopter lit the scene – surely a news network – before the police managed to erect tents and overhead lights, whitewashing the monument in a steady glare.
Becky was on her own, her two companions having left not long before the first of the Guardia Civil had shown up. As discussed, she’d let Maria do most of the talking, making it sound like the entire investigation had been her idea, on a hunch from a contact. The officers had asked Becky questions, and she’d answered them as honestly as possible, if ‘honesty’ covered the great chunks of information she’d left out. Now it was a full day later, and things seemed to be moving at pace.
Aside from the ebullience of a possible breakthrough and her intuition perhaps paying off, she felt a measure of control at how she’d dealt with the situation.
The appearance of Inspectors Marcus and Labelle crushed this smugness. Jittery torchlight heralded their path up the same route Maria and Miguel had taken earlier. As they grew more distinct, forcing their way through the initial cordon, Becky could see them arguing, heads set close together.
Marcus’ mouth was still sloped downwards from left to right, but he was showing some teeth too as he approached Becky. ‘The mystery girl returns,’ he sneered, sweeping stray locks of his floppy fringe back across his forehead.
‘Good evening to you, too,’ Becky replied, brightly.
‘Mind telling us the story behind your hunch?’ he asked.
‘Just a bit of old-fashioned research, really. I looked at some cold cases, and followed my nose. I’d rather not expose my sources. I’m a reporter. You know how it is.’ Even in the gloom, she could see a nerve jump at Marcus’ temples. ‘That’s fantastic. And when did you qualify to serve with the police?’
Becky met his stare but said nothing.
‘Did you even consider telling the police at any point leading up to this?’ he yelled.
‘What would you have done?’ Becky spread her hands. ‘Got right on the case? Diverted all available units? You’d have done nothing. Neither would the Guardia Civil. They’d have told me to take a number. It seems if I want something done in this case, I have to do it myself. So, I have done. And by the way – I don’t hear anybody saying “thank you”.’
‘We’ve got no idea what’s under here – it could be dead rabbits for all we know. Maybe an old gravesite from centuries ago. The dog might have got it wrong. And let me tell you – if it turns out to be nothing, I’ll get you charged with wasting police time and obstructing our ongoing investigations.’
Becky clenched her fists. ‘I’m getting tired of your attitude,’ she said. ‘And I’m really, really tired of your fringe.’
‘I don’t blame you,’ Labelle said. ‘I think he’d suit something a little closer to the scalp. But Becky, this was naughty of you, you have to admit.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with carrying out a private investigation under private means. I had an idea that a crime had been committed here, and I informed an officer of the law to look into it. And that, Inspector Clouseau,’ she said, glaring at Marcus, ‘isn’t hindering an investigation – it’s assisting one. I guess you’ll be putting me forward for next month’s community award?’
Marcus snorted, and a lemon rind smile broke through his lips. ‘You know, I always loved those movies,’ he said. ‘I see myself more as the Herbert Lom character, though.’
Labelle remained focused and businesslike, and her intense blue eyes seemed to glow in the dark. ‘You didn’t come up with a hunch out of nothing. Have you been tipped off?’
‘No. This is all my own work.’
‘Then what brought you here, Becky? Marcus is right. If you’re withholding evidence from us and cost us time and resources, well that’s…’ She shrugged. ‘Very bad.’
‘And naughty,’ Marcus added.
Becky took a deep breath and allowed her jaw to sag. Underneath her clothes her stomach muscles rippled, helping the tension leak out from her frame. ‘Take a look around you. What’s strikingly obvious?’
Marcus made a point of scanning the horizon. ‘Dust? Hills? Spanish castle magic?’
‘Stones,’ Labelle answered.
‘Correct. Menhirs, obelisks. Standing stones. Ceremonial sites. Prehistoric, druidic, Celtic, Pictish. It doesn’t matter. So long as it’s old and some cavemen set them up, our guy wants to kill people there. What the significance of it all is, only he knows. Maybe it’s just something he’s into, like some people like to collect ceramic frogs. There’s no obvious link, whether geographical, meteorological or astronomical, so far as I can tell. A different spot every time, but they have that vague feature in common. It’s the same everywhere else he’s struck.’
‘Who?’ Marcus frowned. ‘Your guy?’
‘Yes. Families. Slaughtered, like mine was. The heads removed. He’s covered a few cases up very well, like one in Orkney in 1984. Made it look like a murder-suicide. This monument was built six months after the Ramirez family vanished. My guess is, they’re buried under there. Deep.’
‘We’ve heard a lot of these theories before, Becky,’ Marcus replied. ‘We know all about them. Particularly the one in Orkney. We’ve looked into cases with possible links. All of them. There’s a more plausible theory that the Orkney case was a crime of passion, the work of a jealous lover, disguised as a murder-suicide by the real killer. But the evidence is clear. That family had money problems. It led to stress in the home. The wife complained of it to her doctor. She was worried her husband was cracking up – and with good reason. Two weeks later he killed her and their children, then himself.’
‘That’s what the initial inquiry says. I admit he did a good job, but there’s been no proper DNA testing. Our guy was trying to cover his tracks, and he did it well.’
Marcus shook his head. There was a note of conciliation, even of pity, in his voice. ‘We’ve gone through all that, Becky. Whatever you’ve heard from whatever sources, we’ve picked through the case in a lot more detail than you. I can promise you, the investigations were thorough.’
‘They’ve never found any sign of the Ramirez family. Until now.’
‘We don’t know what’s under there, as we’ve said.’
That’s when raised voices echoed out across the mountainside, coming from the bleached white light tents where shadows occasionally bulged and twisted before moving lights.
‘I’ve a feeling we will soon,’ Becky said, under her breath.
38
You got used to a mouthful of dirt – after all, what harm could dirt do? It couldn’t bury her, unless there was a serious flood, a biblical flood – the kind that gouged a chunk of land off bare mountainside. Minor floods seemed to be catered for, though – there was drainage, helped in a large part by the trees, so the mud wouldn’t pool any higher than about ankle deep. Still some dirt got in her mouth, which had been horrific the first few times she’d tried to climb out. But you got used to it. You even got used to slipping off the walls and landing hard.
The same applied to bugs. She hadn’t felt any particular hunger upon considering them, or the pallid worms that tickled her feet like great wet tongues, but the day might come. The day might come soon.
He’d given her clothes and food, after the second day. If he was neglectful, water was rarely a problem down there, although this was often thickened with dirt. You got used to that, too. Just like you got used to y
our own waste being in the same room.
Thankfully there were no rats. That might have changed things.
A few times, he had left the trap door open, and she had flailed like a maniac at the walls, screaming in frustration every time she slipped.
She heard him laugh but did not see the masked face. She never knew how long he lingered, listening to her struggles. Once, he left the trap door open all night. She could see the stars through the canopy of fir trees, a clear velvety sky tinged blue in contrast with the bristly black arboreal frame. This sight might have been beautiful, in other circumstances. She flinched at every snap and swish of foliage, at the passage of living creatures in the forest floor above.
She did not move all night.
Neither, it seemed, had he.
Or more likely, he’d never been there.
With the pink light of dawn revealing the deep green swaying above her, the bone mask peered over the lip of the trap door. There was no way to tell if he was smiling. There was a suggestion of a tongue flapping behind the splintered, ingrained teeth in the jaws, as if he meant to lick the false face he presented to her.
‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘That’s more like it. You’re getting the idea.’
He slammed shut the door. She only sat there, in the rank dark, chin on her knees, and waited for his return.
It was all she could do.
While he made his way back down the slope, a text message came in. He frowned at it; it was an automated message, which alerted him to the use of certain debit and credit cards.
It showed a receipt for a return ticket to Romania.
This stopped him in his tracks.
‘Ah,’ was all he said.
39
Becky’s computer pinged; opening up the messaging app, she saw Bernard’s face. He looked as if he was in the cockpit of a plane, tightly packed among shelves packed with computers, monitors and electrical equipment. His afro was interrupted by a headset with a microphone.
