by James Oswald
I was worried that the door might be locked, but when we reach the crypt it’s wide open. The candles have all been extinguished, only the sour smell of burned wax tainting the air. That and something else that sparks a memory I can’t quite pin down.
‘Over there.’ I point towards the sarcophagus, still sitting in the middle of the room. A beam of light cuts over it, and something looks out of place. It’s swept past before I can see what, resting instead on the chair where Masters almost squeezed the life out of me. It’s empty now, but the stains show up even worse under the harsh white electric light. Spatter patterns that would make a forensic pathologist rub their hands with glee. People have died here. Messily.
‘Jesus.’ Bain steps out into the crypt, his feet echoing on the flagstones. I’m not sure I really want to go back in, now that I’m here. After what happened before, and Mrs Feltham’s strange words, the stone closes around me like a tomb. I can remember all too well the feeling of being trapped inside that narrow sarcophagus. And now I realise what it was that I saw, what sparked that memory.
‘The stone top.’
Nobody pays me any attention, so I grab the torch from the nearest constable. He’d been shining it at the carved grotesques on the ceiling, and gives me a short ‘Hey’ of complaint. It dies on his lips as I direct the beam where I want it.
The massive stone slab that I couldn’t lift when I was trapped inside the sarcophagus now lies across it at a sharp angle. As if whoever was putting it back on again was in too much of a hurry to do the job properly. I can imagine the panic, the anger, the frustration when they realised I’d escaped. The rush to destroy as much evidence as possible before I brought police and forensics experts here to start pulling their vicious little cult apart.
I move the torch to the end where I escaped, and sure enough the broken pieces of stone are still strewn about the floor. I step into the crypt, gasping in pain as I catch my foot on an uneven flagstone. Something is drawing me to the hole at the end of the sarcophagus. Some combination of half-remembered words, observations, things I don’t want to think about. I shine the light on the floor, mostly so that I don’t stumble again, but also because whilst I need to look inside the coffin, I really don’t want to. But finally I am there, at the end, standing where I fell not more than a few hours ago. I turn slowly, playing the light on the damage my boots did, and there, inside, are another pair of feet. Another person.
‘There’s someone here.’ My voice is so quiet nobody seems to hear, so I say it again, louder this time. ‘There’s someone inside.’
That gets their attention. Bain hurries over to where I’m standing, kicking stones aside as he does. Karen moves more carefully, but soon the both of them are bent low, peering into the sarcophagus and the figure lying within.
‘We need to get the lid off,’ Bain says, then directs the two constables to help. It was too much for me, but the three of them make light work of it. I don’t see where they put it down, don’t hear it clink against the floor. I can’t even breathe as I step forward and play the torchlight over the small, thin figure lying in repose. Part of me knew this was how it was going to end, even though the rational part of me can’t even begin to say how I knew.
‘Oh my God. Who is she?’ one of the constables asks. Bain knows. All he says is ‘Oh shit.’
They’ve folded her arms across her chest, put her false spectacles in one hand. She’s even wearing my mousy-brown wig with the grey highlights, but I’d still recognise my mother anywhere.
50
The day passes in snapshots of activity and pain. I’m more tired than I’ve ever been, but there’s no way I can sleep. For one thing, my cracked ribs make any movement difficult, despite the painkillers. For another, while a number of the acolytes of the Church of the Coming Light have been rounded up and brought in for questioning, Masters remains at large.
I should go home, get some rest, practise sleeping in a more or less upright position. Instead I mope around the station and the conference room the NCA team have taken over, waiting for updates. If I leave, they’ll most likely not let me back in again. So I stay.
‘Why are you still here?’
I must have nodded off briefly, as the voice startles me. So does the jolt of pain through my chest when I twitch awake. I turn more slowly to see Superintendent Shepherd standing in the doorway. Except that she’s not a superintendent, is she. She’s a brigadier.
‘Ma’am?’ It’s all I can think of to say. My brain’s not working at full capacity right now.
‘Honestly, Fairchild. Any other officer would have taken the rest of the day off. The rest of the week. At least tell me you’ve been to A & E for a check-up.’ She bustles into the room, more like a mother hen than someone given to barking orders she knows will be carried out without question. I struggle slowly to my feet.
‘I’m fine.’ I’m not fine. Her hand at my elbow is all that stops me from planting my face on the carpet tiles.
‘Sit,’ she orders, lowering me back into my chair. ‘I’ll get us some coffee.’
There’s a pot on a side table, and I watch as she pours coffee into two mugs and then spoons sugar into one of them. I thought it was for her, but I’m grateful for the sweetness and energy when I find out she’s given that one to me.
‘Ed’s filled me in on what happened. I’m sorry about your mum.’
She looks it, too. I’m still finding it hard to process. ‘We weren’t close, but thanks anyway.’
‘You have a certain knack for getting into trouble. I had a young captain under my command much the same. You remind me of him.’
‘That’s right – you’re not a super, you’re a brigadier.’
Shepherd raises an eyebrow at that. ‘Not common knowledge. Especially in these parts.’
‘Any particular reason you keep it secret?’
‘Much the same reason you don’t tell people you’re Lady Constance, I’d guess.’ Shepherd pulls out one of the chairs and sits in it so close our knees are almost touching. ‘It’s a distraction. And I got bored of all the Doctor Who jokes.’
‘What happened to him? Your captain?’
‘Afghanistan happened.’ It’s all she’ll say on the matter. I can tell by the way she gazes off across the room to the whiteboard. ‘So what exactly is the deal with the Reverend Doctor Edward Masters? And how is it that a church in north London has an undocumented late-Roman crypt underneath it?’
I’d shrug, only I know just how painful that would be. ‘I can’t begin to understand what drives him, but it’s basically dark muti, like DCI Bain thought. Human sacrifice, taking the best bits to give strength or other desirable traits to whoever commissioned him. I suspect that’s where a lot of the money for his church comes from. Wealthy businessmen with an unhealthy dose of superstition.’
‘I’ve seen some awful things in my time, but . . .’ Shepherd grimaces. ‘Sooner we catch the sick bastard the better.’
‘How’s it going? Must be every copper in the Met out there looking for him.’
‘And more. We’ve put out an all ports, and Interpol are on it too, just in case he’s slipped through the net. We’ll get him, have no worry about that.’
‘Easy for you to say. You’re not the one whose ribs he broke.’ I shift in my seat and reach for my coffee, then regret it when the pain stabs me again. And the mug’s empty.
‘OK. Enough’s enough. I’m going to get Karen to take you home, and you’re staying there until we come for you.’
I’m about to say ‘Who are you now, my mum?’ when it hits me that I don’t have a mother any more. I wonder if anyone’s broken the news to my father. I should call Aunt Flick. What about Ben and Charlotte, though? They’ve only just set off on their honeymoon. Should I call them and ruin that?
‘You’ll be fine, Con. I’ll put a security detail on your door if you want.’ Shepherd mistak
es my silence for fear, although to be fair I’m happier in here surrounded by police officers than I would be out there with cracked ribs. I don’t even have my can of mace spray; nobody’s been able to find my backpack or coat yet. That makes me feel more vulnerable than anything, knowing that Masters has my phone, my keys, my sense of security. Damn him for taking that. I won’t give him the satisfaction. I try to sit a little more upright in my seat, ignoring the pain that I’m going to have to get used to for a while anyway. My resolve doesn’t last long.
‘OK. I’ll go home. But you let me know the minute we have any leads on Masters, right?’
‘Deal.’ Shepherd stands up, holding her hand out, fingers splayed, to stop me from following. ‘Stay there. I’ll go and find Karen.’
She walks to the door, then turns back to me before leaving. ‘Welcome to the team, Con. I think you’ll fit right in.’
There are no reporters outside my apartment block when we arrive, no paparazzi photographers lurking behind the concrete pillars. Not for the first time, it occurs to me that they would never just camp out here at all hours and in all weather. Not for me, however much they thought the story had all the right ingredients for a good dose of moral outrage. And yet far too often over the past few months they’ve been waiting for me when I came home. How did they know? It doesn’t take a genius to see they must have been tipped off by someone, and the list of people who would know my movements that intimately is not long.
Karen follows me up the stairs, even though I’m quite capable of climbing them unaided. I reckon she’d give me a lift back to Charlotte’s if I asked, and it’s tempting. I can’t get in right now, though, and Izzy’s gone back to Harston Magna for her own safety. It’s just as well I gave Mrs Feltham a spare set of keys to my flat. I’ll have to change the locks again, but at least I can get in, have a shower and put on some clean clothes.
‘Want a cuppa?’ I ask as I walk through to the kitchen. ‘Actually, scratch that. I’ve no milk. Might have some beer though.’
‘I could nip down to the corner shop and get some milk. It’s probably not good to mix beer with those painkillers you’ve been taking all day.’
‘You sure?’ I start to walk over to where my bag would be hanging, if it hadn’t been taken off me last night, along with all my money and cards. Karen seems to understand my predicament before I do.
‘It’s OK. You can owe me. Anything else you might need?’
‘Milk’s fine, thanks. I’ll have to see about getting some cash in the morning. What a nightmare.’
‘We’ll get through it though. Back in five, OK?’ Karen disappears into the hall. A moment later I hear the jangle of keys as she takes them from the sideboard. The door closes and the lock clacks into place. I shuffle painfully about the kitchen for a moment, then cross the hall to the living room. It’s easier to stand, or to sit fairly upright. Moving between the two is agony, so bending down to grab the remote control for the telly is fun.
I’ve hardly got the thing switched on when I hear a light tapping sound at the front door. That was quick, maybe too quick. And anyway, she took the keys with her didn’t she? Ten years in the police has made me wary, the last twenty-four hours more so than ever, so I check the spyhole to see who’s there. It’s not Karen bearing gifts. Of all the people it might have been, this one is perhaps the least expected. I slide the chain off and unlock the door, half opening it to reveal Anna Cho. She’s been caught in the rain, her hair bedraggled, coat dripping. I look a bit closer. That’s my coat. And that’s my small backpack slung over her shoulder.
‘Din’t know where to go, like. It’s all gone to shit, right?’
There’s something about her that feels all wrong. She looks like she’s not slept in days, probably not eaten either. But it’s the deadness in her eyes that sets me on edge. If I could, I’d turn her away. I don’t want anything to do with her. But she needs to come in for questioning, at the very least. And I’d like my things back too.
‘You’d better come in.’ I open the door wider, stand aside to let her enter. She hesitates for a moment, eyes darting to the side in a manner I’m too tired and too slow to pick up on. It occurs to me too late that there’s only one way she could have got hold of my coat and backpack. She was there, at Ritzy’s.
‘I’m so sorry. He made me . . .’
Which is when Edward Masters steps into view.
51
I couldn’t stop him from barging in even if I wanted to. He’s twice my size, and he hasn’t got cracked ribs. The two of them are inside, the door slammed shut behind them, before I can so much as shout. How the fuck did he get up here past the squad car parked across the road?
‘Come to give yourself up, have you?’ I try to sound brave, but probably fail. How long have I got before Karen comes back? Can I shout and warn her, or will he let her in and then have two of us captive? I’m not going to let that happen.
‘What is that you say?’ Masters pushes past Anna, shoving her so hard that she falls back into the jumble of boots and other rubbish by the front door. My old golfing umbrella is there, but I can’t reach it to use it as a weapon. There’s nothing else I’d fancy my chances with. Not in this small flat.
‘You are a thorn in my side, Lady Constance Fairchild. An irritant like a mosquito buzzing around my ear. But like the mosquito, I will swat you away. First though, you will give me what you should have given your mother.’
He reaches towards me in much the same way as he did back in the crypt, as if he’s conjuring some invisible force between us. If there is such a force, it’s insubstantial too, and there’s something about the way he says ‘mother’ that brings my anger to the boil. I’ve heard men like him use the same sneering tone when they say ‘woman’ or ‘girl’ too. There is not one scrap of respect in it, only contempt. And a flickering doubt in his face, too. He curves his fingers in towards his palm, pulling his hand as if tugging on reins tied around my neck. I feel nothing, which is hardly surprising given I’m not really into that kind of kink.
He throws his hand in my direction and pulls it back again, dark brow furrowed as his frustration turns to swift fury. I would laugh, but I’ve seen what he can do with those hands.
‘How is it you are not helpless now? Who are you who can throw off such powerful magic without a thought?’
Magic? Is that what this is? But then again he must believe in his muti, otherwise why do it? And why toss the dead bodies aside as if they mean nothing to him.
‘I don’t believe in fairies, Masters. Well, not that kind anyway.’ I make a small shrug with my shoulders, and the fact it only hurts a lot, rather than unbearably, gives me a kind of rogue strength. I’ll taunt him, keep him occupied, and soon enough help will come.
‘You have no idea what forces you are messing with, child. This one knows.’ He turns away briefly to where Anna cowers in the corner by the door. With his other hand, he makes the same pulling motion, and I can see the struggle in her face as she tries to stop herself coming to him. It’s futile though. Step by pitiful step she inches closer until he can wrap his giant hand around her neck.
‘Leave her be.’
‘Or what?’ He squeezes until Anna’s eyes bulge, her cheeks turning red under her thin white make-up. And yet she doesn’t fight him. Her hands hang at her sides, one with fingers loose, the other clutching something.
‘She is mine. Completely. Mine to give life to, and mine to take it away.’
Anna lets out a slow gurgling whine, and yet still seems unable to fight back against Masters. I can only watch as he slowly chokes the life out of her.
And then I realise that I can do far more than watch.
‘Enough of this shit. Put her down.’ I step forward as I speak, pull back my arm, make a fist and punch him as hard as I can. Right in the face. One arm occupied, Masters is too slow to parry with the other, and I feel the satisfying crunc
h of cartilage as his nose breaks. His head snaps back and blood spurts across his cheeks. For a moment I think he might go down, but he shakes off the blow like a terrier killing a rat. Then my ribs remind me of what he did to them earlier.
‘You dare!’ He roars like an angry bear, as much affronted as in pain. I don’t care, all I can feel is my chest on fire, and curling up against the agony only makes it worse. I fall to my knees as Masters rises up, both hands huge boulders almost grazing the ceiling before he brings them down for a killing blow. I tense, resigned to it but still willing to fight to the end. If I’m going to die, then I’ll look death in the face, spit at it if I can.
There’s an oddly faint ‘pock’ noise, and everything changes. Masters’ eyes, bulging and mad with fury, go wide, then roll upwards into their sockets. His fists fall from the sky like meteorites, but at the same time he crumples like a concrete tower when the demolition explosion goes off. It’s all I can do to scramble out of the way as he crashes to the floor in an unconscious heap. I stare at him for long moments, and then up at the space where he had been standing. Anna looks back at me with wide eyes, my golf umbrella in both hands, bent with the force she used bringing its handle down on the back of his head.
We’re still staring at each other a minute later when the key clicks in the lock and the door opens to reveal Karen Eve with a carton of milk in one hand. It’s to her credit that she doesn’t drop it.
‘The fuck?’
52
I’d hoped to avoid hospital, but sometimes you just have to accept the inevitable. The pills the nurse gives me don’t really take the pain away, but they do make me not care so much about it. Each breath is an interesting adventure though. Too deep and my vision starts to darken, too shallow and I risk having to take a deep one or pass out.
