by Paul Finch
‘Don’t worry about him, he’s harmless,’ Chantelle said. ‘How much?’
‘Oh …’ The girl smiled. ‘How does two hundred sound? Per hour? Each?’
Even Gracie was taken aback by that.
‘You’ve got a deal, darling,’ Chantelle replied.
‘Wait a minute,’ Gracie said. ‘We need a look at this bloke of yours first. If he’s the Hunchback of Notre Dame, it’s gonna cost you a lot more.’
The girl nodded. ‘Fair enough. I’ll see if I can talk him into showing his pretty face.’ She walked back across the road.
‘Have you gone mental?’ Chantelle hissed. ‘This’ll be a piece of piss. Two bits of kids and big cash.’
‘Two bits of kids driving a forty-grand car?’ Gracie said suspiciously.
‘Alright, so they’re rich kids. Doesn’t mean they’re going to be trouble. Come on love, this is easy money. Plus we’ll be together, and it’ll probably be a nice pad – warm, cosy. Might get a couple of drinks out of it as well.’
In all honesty, Gracie couldn’t think of a reason why she didn’t want to do this. Everything her friend said was correct: this was a dream job – easy work in a pleasant environment, with two non-threatening customers. So why did she still feel uneasy?
‘Suppose it seems a bit too good to be true, that’s all.’
‘Hey!’ Chantelle tapped her arm. ‘Good things do happen sometimes, you know.’
‘I don’t know, Chant …’
‘Listen …’ Chantelle lowered her voice confidentially. ‘Are you seriously telling me you don’t want a taste of that young, blonde pussy?’
‘She looks underage to me.’
‘She looks borderline, and who cares? They came to us first. Look, they post films of themselves online. They must be covered legally to do that.’
‘Ladies!’ came the girl’s voice.
They glanced across the cobbled street. The driver had climbed out and was standing alongside the car, one arm linked with hers. He waved at them sheepishly, almost shyly. From what Gracie and Chantelle could see, there was nothing about him that put either of them off. In fact, quite the opposite.
‘Don’t look the type, do they?’ Chantelle said as they crossed the road together, their spike heels clacking in the night air.
‘Kids grow up too quickly these days,’ Gracie replied. ‘Fucking internet.’
‘Don’t knock it. We might get regular work out of this. Safe work too.’
‘Like you say … good things do sometimes happen.’
The interior of the Jaguar was plush and warm, fragrant of leather and felt. Low music was playing: something croony and melodic from the Big Band era.
‘Very nice,’ Chantelle said, making herself comfortable in the back. ‘What’re your names then?’
‘I’m Jasmine,’ the blonde girl said, turning round from the front passenger seat. ‘This is Gareth.’
Gareth was now behind the wheel. He said nothing as the engine purred to life.
‘How far have we got to go?’ Gracie asked.
‘Just out of town. It’s not too far, and we’ll bring you back here when we’re done. Or we can take you both home.’
‘Back here’ll be just fine, thank you,’ Gracie said.
‘What’s your poison, ladies?’ Jasmine asked.
Chantelle tittered. ‘You planning on taking us for a drink first?’
‘I wasn’t planning to, but here …’ She opened a leather zip-lock bag and lifted out two plastic goblets, which she handed over, one to each. She unscrewed the top from a bottle. ‘It’s no problem to stretch to a drop of Chablis … on the house of course.’
‘Ta,’ Chantelle said, licking her lips as the goblets were filled.
‘What exactly do we have to do in this movie of yours?’ Gracie wondered.
‘Just the usual stuff. Nothing too weird, I promise you.’
There was nothing particularly weird that Gracie and Chantelle hadn’t already experienced, but it was always reassuring to hear that a punter wanted it straight.
‘I hope you’re performing with us?’ Chantelle said.
‘I’ve got my part to play, don’t worry.’ Jasmine turned back to the front.
Chantelle winked at Gracie, and they sipped their wine together as the Jaguar pulled away from the kerb. Neither of them noticed the blonde girl glance out through her window and across the road into the gloom beneath the railway arch. Neither saw the hooded figure, which had waited for them to depart, now slink out of the clustered shadows.
‘Whaaa … what the fu …’ the ferrety-faced tramp shouted as the cardboard roof was torn away from over his head. But his words choked off when he saw the hooded shape standing over him, in particular when he saw it hefting a huge, flat stone in its gloved hands – by the looks of it, at least half a paving slab.
He tried to scream, but it was too late – the stranger had already raised the slab on high and now swung it down with all his considerable might. It struck the tramp’s skull with a crunching impact. A second blow followed, then a third, a fourth and a fifth. The heavy, meaty echoes resounded through the aged archways.
Chapter 19
‘These are the upcoming dates we may need to be concerned about,’ Eric Fisher said.
Heck and Andy Gregson regarded the picture boards that Fisher had assembled in the MIR. Previously they’d only glimpsed them, but now, having come in early this morning, they were able to assess them properly. The one on the right had been distracting enough, layered as it was with images of ritual slayings from throughout the historical past, but the one on the left was of more immediate importance.
Photos of church parades, children formed in choirs and Morris Men dancing had all been added to the pictures of the walking-days, fetes on village greens and so forth. Each had a label attached to it, and a date, alongside a typed-out précis of the event itself and the circumstances surrounding it. Despite the jollity on view, none of it made for easy reading. April alone boasted eighteen entries, such mystifying dates as Hocktide and Low Sunday figuring alongside the more traditional Easter and St George’s Day. There were similar treats in May: everyone knew about May Day, Empire Day and Whitsun, but who knew anything about Helston Flora or Royal Oak Day?
‘Never heard of half of these,’ Gregson commented.
‘That’s because we’re not a spiritual nation anymore,’ Fisher replied, handing out printed sheets to the various detectives who’d gathered around them. ‘When I was a lad, anything to do with the Church, we’d have a day off school for it. Used to call them “holy days of obligation”. Most folk have never heard of that now. But this is only scratching the surface, if I’m honest. There are local events – things they go big on in some parts of the country, which are ignored in others. Different kinds of celebrations. Some vary from parish to parish, never mind county to county. But religion is the underlying theme. All these special days once meant a lot more to people than they do now.’
‘What’s religious about Bonfire Night?’ Charlie Finnegan asked.
‘Nothing now,’ Heck replied, ‘but the original Gunpowder Plot was supposed to signal a Catholic uprising. Least that’s what I was always taught at school.’
‘Correct,’ Fisher said. ‘I’ve scrutinised these festivals a bit more carefully since we’ve been here. November 5 is an old Protestant celebration. It’s not seen that way now, except in places like Lewes in East Sussex, where papal effigies get burned. But that was its start point.’
‘Simplifies things, at least,’ Finnegan said. ‘We’re after a bunch of religious freaks.’
Heck looked doubtful. ‘Possibly, but which religion? Eric, didn’t we decide that some of these festivals were once pagan?’
Fisher nodded. ‘Christmas was the ancient Germanic Yuletide; Valentine’s Day was the Roman feast of Lupercalia. And that’s the story almost across the board. The things we do on these occasions now are just remnants of older, more elaborate ceremonies.’
&nbs
p; ‘And were they marked with human sacrifices?’ Shawna McCluskey asked.
Fisher pulled a face. ‘Some of them were, sometimes …’
‘It doesn’t pan out,’ Gary Quinnell argued. ‘Celebrating Christian feasts with vicious murders, even celebrating pagan feasts with murder – that was centuries and centuries ago. Modern Wiccans are like us; they don’t believe in shedding blood. On top of that, these special days are all different. Most of them have no connection with each other in terms of origin or activity. There’s no recognisable theology underlying any of this. None that makes sense to me.’
‘Well, whoever they are, with so many special days to pick from, they could strike at any time,’ Fisher said.
‘They have to plan though, don’t they?’ Shawna replied. ‘They can’t just pick dates off a calendar at random.’
‘They’ve planned this whole thing already,’ Heck said. ‘Months ago, maybe years.’
They all pondered that – and were demoralised by it. The patience required to hatch and evolve such a complex scheme suggested a mindset that was not just cold, calculating and patient – infinitely patient – but obsessive to the point of madness. As Heck stared at the joyful images – top-hatted ‘tuttimen’ carrying poles decorated with spring flowers, a foliage-covered Jack-in-the-Green parading through a village square with hordes of laughing children in pursuit – it was still difficult to imagine that this whole thing was nothing more than a ghoulish but ultimately meaningless game.
‘Suppose they’re not celebrating these feast days,’ Shawna suddenly said. ‘Suppose they’re desecrating them.’
Everyone glanced around at her.
‘Don’t you think?’ she added, looking amazed that she’d come up with such an idea. ‘They’re not just mocking them, they’re ruining them forever.’
‘You mean like … an anti-religious group?’ Quinnell said. ‘Like a bunch of, I dunno … militant atheists, or something?’
Finnegan chuckled. ‘Who was it mentioned upsetting the trendy left?’
‘Mockery,’ Heck said thoughtfully. ‘Is all this just a massive piss-take?’
‘Whatever these nutters’ motivations, they are bloody well organised,’ Fisher said. ‘The way they’re selecting victims, luring them into traps, nabbing them. They’re so well organised it wouldn’t surprise me if they aren’t following the investigation in order to improvise … in case we get too close.’
‘Useful stuff,’ came Gemma’s voice. She’d approached from her office and was standing close by, pen in hand. ‘And sound advice. Even more of a reason not to tell tales out of school. In the meantime, Heck … a word please.’
Heck followed her into her office, dragging off his jacket. DCI Garrickson was already in there, stripped to his shirt-sleeves and leafing through a pile of reports. He barely grunted as Heck said ‘Morning’ to him. Gemma slid back behind her desk, nodding at Heck to pull up a chair. He did so.
‘Nothing useful from the gang-intervention units, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘I’ve been in touch with Merseyside, GMP and West Yorkshire. None of them seem to think these types of crimes are a fit for any of the groups they monitor.’
Heck shrugged. ‘No surprise really. This whole case reveals an extreme level of deviancy … I’ve said all along this isn’t the work of everyday criminals.’
Garrickson groaned. ‘Not this psycho-babble again. Look … if we’re not looking for criminals, who are we looking for?’
‘All I can tell you, sir, is that this is something very different from the norm. And very difficult to explain, especially as there’s no obvious gain for those involved.’
‘This thrill-kill business?’ Garrickson sounded unimpressed. ‘This showmanship thing?’
Heck nodded. ‘That’s one explanation. Religious fanaticism might be another, but personally I doubt that one. Shawna’s come up with a neat idea. She thinks we’re looking at deliberate desecrations. You know, vicious acts designed to hurt and upset the maximum number of people. That would certainly match the narcissist profile.’
‘A narcissist thrill-killer,’ Gemma mused. ‘They tend to be individuals.’
‘One individual could be controlling the others,’ Heck replied. ‘A master manipulator, who’s surrounded himself with misfits, outcasts … naïve types who’ll follow any orders.’
‘As in a cult?’ she wondered.
‘The more I think about it, the more that seems possible,’ Heck said. ‘I’m not sure it’s a very big group, though. Can’t be more than a handful of members.’
Garrickson regarded him with fascination. ‘You’ve really hit the speculation button, haven’t you?’
‘Well, the more heinous the crime, sir, the harder it is to get people to participate …’
‘I’m perfectly aware of that. I just don’t know how we’ve got from not knowing anything to putting APBs out on the Manson family …’
Shawna barged in. ‘Sorry, ma’am. But you’ll want to see this email.’
Gemma took a couple of print-outs from her and read them carefully – not once but twice. Then she placed them on the desk and glanced up. ‘The lab has managed to lift a DNA profile from the hair found under Ernest Shapiro’s fingernails. What’s more, we’ve got a positive hit on it. It belongs to a certain Cameron Boyd of Longsight, Manchester … thirty-three years old and well known. Boyd has form for robbery, car-jacking, GBH and rape.’
‘They used to call him “Cam the Spike”,’ Shawna said. ‘Because his weapon of choice was a sharpened screwdriver.’
Garrickson looked delighted. ‘That’s what I call a lead! We should pick him up now, give him the third degree!’
Heck took one of the print-outs from the desk.
‘Known associates?’ Gemma asked Shawna.
‘Take your pick, ma’am. He’s into everything …’
‘Serial murder?’ Heck wondered.
‘Well … not up till now,’ Shawna replied. ‘But he’s a player. Surely you can see that?’
‘Course … but it’s all commonplace stuff. Car-jacking, robbery.’
‘Rape?’ Shawna said.
Heck tapped the print-out. ‘According to this, he was convicted of raping his girlfriend. Doesn’t make him a nice guy, but it doesn’t make him a night-stalker either.’
‘What are you suggesting?’ Garrickson asked.
‘I don’t know.’ Heck focused on Gemma. ‘It’s a development, I’m not denying it … it needs checking. But ma’am, if we were chasing run-of-the-mill offenders, wouldn’t our grasses have tipped us some kind of wink by now? Look at Boyd’s sheet – he left school at sixteen, having spent most of his time there excluded. He’s not just a scrote; he’s as thick as pigshit. Would he have the first idea how to affect a proper crucifixion?’
‘All he’d have to do is watch a movie,’ Garrickson said.
‘Not according to Professor Fillingham.’
‘Could he not just be an assistant?’ Shawna said. ‘Hired muscle maybe?’
Heck blew out a long breath. ‘Could be, I suppose …’
Garrickson chuckled. ‘You suppose? That’s big of you.’
Heck turned back to Gemma. ‘Ma’am, it’s only a gut feeling, but I thought we’d be looking for more educated suspects. I know it seems unlikely, but a writer, a historian …’
‘Heck,’ she said, ‘are you seriously saying you want me to ignore a DNA lead?’
‘No …’ Belatedly, Heck realised that he was asking her to accept the impossible. Not only that, he was asking it of himself. You couldn’t really argue with DNA. Cameron Boyd had to be involved in this at some level. Possibly, like Shawna suggested, as an enforcer. But still there was that element of doubt. ‘Look, ma’am … while you lot are fixed on Boyd, why not let me make a sweep of all the college faculties in the Merseyside and Greater Manchester areas? Sixth form and up? See if I uncover anything.’
‘On your own?’ Gemma said. ‘You know how many that’s likely to be?’
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�I’ll have Andy Gregson with me.’
Garrickson pushed himself back from the desk and stood up. ‘So first it was Charles Manson, and now it’s the Nutty Professor … is that right?’
‘Not specifically,’ Heck said.
Garrickson rounded on Gemma. ‘This is bullshit, ma’am. Your Minister Without Portfolio wants to go off on his own again. We’ll end up with as big a body count as we had during the Nice Guys enquiry.’
Heck was about to respond to that by telling the DCI where he could shove his flash suits and prissy silk handkerchiefs, but Gemma cut him off.
‘Heck!’ she warned. Heck glanced at her and shut his mouth. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I can see you’ve given this a lot of thought, but I agree with Mike. We can’t spare you, let alone you and Gregson. We’re working under a time-limit. It could only be a day or so before these maniacs strike again. So for the moment we need to concentrate on hard evidence, not theory.’
‘Or wild fantasy,’ Garrickson added.
Heck knew that he’d lost the argument, and probably with good reason. They were still under-strength; that was a fact. And anyway, as soon as DNA leads came in, rival theories became insignificant. At the end of the day, all he’d offered was conjecture – meanwhile, the killers’ clock was ticking. They needed to prioritise.
There was a knock at the door and Gary Quinnell entered. ‘Sorry to interrupt, ma’am … but we’ve just had a call from SOCO. The print lifted from the book of matches in the burned wagon has been identified.’ He checked the paperwork in his ham-fist before handing it over. ‘Belongs to one Terry Mullany … from Manchester.’
Shawna half-gasped. ‘Ma’am … Mullany’s another Longsight criminal! He’s on the list as a known associate of Cameron Boyd!’
Garrickson slapped the desk. ‘That settles it.’
