The Revelation Room (The Ben Whittle Investigation Series Book 1)

by Mark Tilbury

  The Revelation Room

  Mark Tilbury

  Text Copyright © 2014 Mark Tilbury

  All Rights Reserved

  Table Of Contents

  Table Of Contents

  Chapter one

  Chapter two

  Chapter three

  Chapter four

  Chapter five

  Chapter six

  Chapter seven

  Chapter eight

  Chapter nine

  Chapter ten

  Chapter eleven

  Chapter twelve

  Chapter thirteen

  Chapter fourteen

  Chapter fifteen

  Chapter sixteen

  Chapter seventeen

  Chapter eighteen

  Chapter nineteen

  Chapter twenty

  Chapter twenty-one

  Chapter twenty-two

  Chapter twenty-three

  Chapter twenty-four

  Chapter twenty-five

  Chapter twenty-six

  Chapter twenty-seven

  Chapter twenty-eight

  Chapter twenty-nine

  Chapter thirty

  Chapter thirty-one

  Chapter thirty-two

  Chapter thirty-three

  Chapter thirty-four

  Chapter thirty-five

  Chapter thirty-six

  Chapter thirty-seven

  Chapter thirty-eight

  Chapter thirty-nine

  Chapter forty

  Note From the Author

  Chapter one

  Tiny pearls of sweat glistened on Ben Whittle’s forehead as he carried Old Joe into Feelham Pentecostal Church in a brown canvas holdall. The bag had rubbed a sore patch on the outside of his right knee during the two mile walk to the church. If Ben didn’t know better, he would have sworn Old Joe was putting on weight. He walked through the hall, trainers screeching on the parquet flooring. There was a cacophony of shouts and jibes coming from the table tennis area where a dozen or so kids jostled for exclusive rights to the table. Andy, an older boy of eighteen, attempted to organise them into a cohesive group. He waved his arms in the air like a conductor trying to coax melody from chaos.

  Pastor Tom White looked over at Ben and rolled his eyes.

  Ben raised his free hand. ‘How’s it going, Tom?’

  ‘Don’t ask. It’s like trying to take charge of a pack of puppies.’

  Even in the mid-July heat, Pastor Tom was wearing his usual tweed jacket, brown corduroy trousers and trilby hat. A tall man with size thirteen feet and arthritic hands, Tom always looked to Ben as if he was some kind of crude prototype puppet that didn’t quite make it into the cast of Thunderbirds.

  Tom had set the church up five years ago in a disused prefab concrete shell that had once housed Feelham Girl Guides. From the outside, with its pebble-dashed grey walls and barred windows, the building looked better suited to housing prisoners of war than worshippers. But as Pastor Tom was fond of saying, “it’s what’s on the inside that counts”.

  There was a poster taped to the wall behind the stage proclaiming The Power of God. To the side of the poster, a large wooden cross bore testament to the true nature of the church.

  ‘I’ll just pop Old Joe out the back, then I’ll be right with you.’

  ‘Get yourself a drink first, lad, you look frazzled,’ Tom said.

  ‘You don’t look so hot yourself.’ And then, on reflection: ‘Scrub that, you look roasted.’

  Tom grinned. ‘Who said “the Lord only gives me what I can cope with”?’

  Ben walked through an open doorway into a back room which served as a rest room and refreshment hub. He put the bag down on a pine table and tried to shake pins and needles out of his arm.

  Maddie White, Pastor Tom’s daughter, peered through a serving hatch that separated the restroom from the small kitchenette where she was busy filling plastic beakers with orange squash. ‘Hi, Ben. How’s it going?’

  ‘Not too bad. I walked for a change. I’m so unfit.’

  Maddie wiped her hands on a tea towel. ‘You look all right to me.’

  Ben’s heart glowed radioactive. ‘I might look a lot better if I exercised more than just my fingers on a computer keyboard.’

  Maddie laughed and tucked a strand of loose hair behind her ear. She joined Ben in the rest room. Dressed in bright yellow dungarees, a white tee-shirt and red and white spotted canvas shoes, she looked like summer to Ben.

  Maddie tapped the canvas bag. ‘How’s Old Joe?’

  ‘Lemme out,’ a muffled voice demanded from inside the bag.

  Maddie grinned. ‘Poor thing. He must be roasted in there.’

  ‘Don’t encourage him.’

  Too late. Old Joe was already encouraged. ‘Come on, it’s dark in here. I’m claustrophobic. How would you like to be stuffed inside a body bag?’

  ‘You’ll be stuffed in a minute if you don’t stop moaning,’ Ben said.

  ‘Aw, let him out, poor thing.’

  Ben unzipped the bag to reveal Old Joe, a ventriloquist dummy which he entertained the kids with every Friday evening before the Bible readings. Old Joe only had one eye which stared permanently to the left courtesy of a broken mechanism. His brown serge suit had fallen victim to several moth attacks, but he was a tramp, and tramps didn’t have their suits dry cleaned.

  Maddie leaned over and spoke as if addressing a baby in a crib. ‘Hey, Old Joe, how are you?’

  ‘Okay, I suppose. For someone zipped up in a body bag.’

  ‘You look very handsome.’

  ‘That’s the kinda girl I like,’ Old Joe said, his wooden lips pulled back in a permanent grin.

  Some of Maddie’s blonde hair tumbled forward. ‘He’s so sweet.’

  Ben pressed a finger to his lips. ‘Don’t say that. You’ll make his head swell.’

  ‘She can call me what she likes. It’s her prer-og-ative.’

  Maddie turned around and faced Ben. ‘You’re really good with him. He actually sounds like he’s talking.’

  ‘I am talking,’ Old Joe said.

  Maddie smiled and looked at Ben. ‘I can’t even see your lips moving.’

  ‘He’s the dummy. I’m the smart one,’ Old Joe said.

  Ben wagged a finger at Old Joe. ‘That’s enough of your cheek.’

  ‘Get me out of here. I’m stiff as a board.’

  Ben shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘You’re heartless. Isn’t he heartless, Maddie?’

  ‘Heart of stone,’ Maddie agreed.

  ‘I’ll zip the bag up if you keep whining,’ Ben said.

  ‘See if I care.’

  Ben zipped up the bag.

  ‘Hey. Come on. I was kidding. I’m roasting in here.’

  Ben grinned. It was one of the many ways Pastor Tom had taught Ben to conceal lip movement. ‘Sleight of lip,’ Tom called it.

  Maddie straightened up. ‘Aw, let him out. He’s adorable.’

  ‘Don’t encourage him.’

  ‘How would you like to be dressed in a suit in this weather? You need to buy me a sha-wimming costume.’

  ‘I need to buy you a gag,’ Ben said.

  ‘I love him,’ Maddie said.

  ‘Marry me,’ Old Joe pleaded.

  Maddie grinned. ‘If you buy me a diamond ring.’

  ‘I’ll buy you three.’

  ‘And where are you going to get the money to buy diamonds?’ Ben asked. ‘You’re just a tatty old tramp.’

  ‘I’ll hustle.’

  Maddie laughed. Sunshine poured into her eyes. ‘Would you like a
drink?’

  ‘Scotch on the rocks.’

  Ben wagged a finger at the bag. ‘Not you, Hobo.’

  ‘I’m as dry as a desert,’ Old Joe persisted.

  Ben pretended to ignore him. ‘I wouldn’t mind some orange squash, thanks.’

  Maddie fetched him a drink from the kitchenette. ‘Busy at work?’

  Her hand brushed against his as she handed him the plastic beaker. It felt like velvet. ‘A bit. Dad’s working a case at the moment.’

  ‘What’s the case? Or is it sworn to secrecy?’

  ‘It’s just a missing girl. Apparently she’s joined a cult. Dad’s tracked them down to a farm out in the sticks somewhere. He’s got the place under surveillance. He’s trying to get photos of the girl to take back to her parents to confirm she’s there.’

  ‘Sounds dangerous.’

  ‘He’ll be all right. He knows what he’s doing.’

  ‘Those cults creep me out. I remember reading about that one in America. Waco. They all died in a fire when the FBI stormed it. Killed themselves. Seventy-odd men, women and children. Terrible.’

  ‘That’s America for you. This lot probably worship the moon and drink chicken blood.’

  ‘I’ll ask my dad to pray for them.’

  Ben wondered if Maddie could get Pastor Tom to ask God to grant his father the virtue of patience while he was about it. ‘Thanks.’

  Maddie looked at her wristwatch. ‘Better get cracking; it’s nearly eight.’

  Ben drained his drink. ‘Wish me luck.’

  ‘Good luck. I’ll come and watch the table tennis tournament as soon as I’ve finished doing the rolls.’

  Ben was about to walk back into the hall when his mobile rang. He fished it out of his jeans pocket. His father’s watch-phone number, marked as Dad 2, flashed on the screen. That was his father’s emergency backup device if his main phone was out of action. A pancake flipped in his stomach. He pressed to accept the call. ‘Dad?’

  A breathless rasping noise gurgled through the earpiece.

  ‘Dad?’

  The rasping noise turned into a whine and then a deep growl.

  ‘Dad? Is that you?’

  His father wheezed. His voice sounded like it was drowning in snot. ‘I…’

  ‘What’s wrong? Where are you?’

  ‘I’m…’

  ‘Have you had an accident?’

  ‘Dying…’

  Ben’s stomach lurched. Goosebumps hatched all over his body. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘No… time… they’re… coming…’

  Ben looked behind him. ‘Who? Who’s coming?’

  His father gasped. It sounded as if he was trying to suck in breath through gravel.

  Ben’s heart thudded in his ears. ‘I’ll call the police. Where are you?’

  His father coughed and wheezed. ‘No… cops…’

  ‘Dad? Dad?’

  ‘No… cops…he’ll…kill…us…all…’

  ‘Where are you?’

  The phone went dead. Ben shook it and pressed it back to his ear. ‘Dad? Can you hear me?’

  Maddie put a hand on Ben’s arm. ‘What is it?’

  Ben gawked at the phone as if it had just given him a hotline to Hell. He tried to gather his thoughts, but it was like trying to collect feathers on a windy hilltop. ‘It’s my dad.’

  ‘What’s wrong with him? Has he had an accident?’

  Ben struggled for words. ‘Oh, Jesus, Maddie, he sounded in a really bad way. Like he couldn’t breathe properly.’

  ‘Ring him back.’

  Ben tried. ‘No answer.’ He tossed his phone on the table and paced around the room. ‘What am I supposed to do now?’

  ‘Call the police. They might be able to trace the call.’

  ‘He told me not to call the cops. He was really adamant about that.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s had an accident. He might be concussed,’ Maddie tried.

  Ben shook his head. ‘But he would’ve just told me to call an ambulance.’

  ‘Do you think it’s got anything to do with this cult?’

  Ben remembered Maddie’s earlier reference to Waco and shuddered. ‘God knows. But he rang me on his watch-phone. That means he’s either broken his main phone or someone’s taken it off him.’

  ‘Try and ring him again.’

  Ben did. Again, no answer. The watch-phone didn’t have a messaging facility. It was a straight dial-in and dial-out device. He tossed his phone back on the table and slumped in a chair. ‘Shit.’

  Maddie reached down and put her hand on Ben’s. Normally, this action would have written a love letter and posted it straight to Ben’s heart. Instead, he flinched, stood up, and paced around the room again.

  ‘Try to calm down, Ben. Do you know where this farm is?’

  Ben shook his head. ‘I don’t have a clue. He never tells me anything. He goes off for days on end sometimes. One time he got beat up and had to go to casualty. He never said a word about who did it or why. It’s just the way he is.’

  Pastor Tom appeared in the doorway. His red and black checked shirt was patched with sweat. ‘When you’re ready, big guy? They’re all raring to go.’

  Maddie walked over to her father. ‘Ben can’t help tonight.’

  Tom looked over at Ben. ‘What’s wrong, son?’

  ‘Ben’s got a massive problem at home.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘You’ll have to do the table tennis tournament on your own.’

  Pastor Tom frowned. ‘Don’t worry about the tournament. I’ll get Andy to see to that. I’ll be right back.’

  Chapter two

  Ben told Pastor Tom about the phone call and the case that his father was working on.

  For once, those clear blue eyes looked troubled. ‘Maybe you should just call the police anyway.’

  Maddie tightened her ponytail. ‘You heard what Ben said; his father told him not to.’

  Tom didn’t look convinced. ‘But they’re professionals. They’ll have the experience to deal with this sort of thing.’

  Ben shook his head. ‘I can’t risk that.’

  ‘Perhaps your dad’s not thinking straight,’ Tom said. ‘He might be disorientated and wandering around dazed somewhere.’

  ‘I reckon the cult’s got him,’ Ben said.

  Tom took off his hat, pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and mopped his brow. ‘Has this cult got a name?’

  Waco popped into Ben’s mind. ‘I don’t know anything about it.’

  ‘And you have no idea whereabouts it might be?’

  Ben shook his head. ‘It’ll be in Oxfordshire somewhere. He doesn’t like to rack up too many miles.’

  Tom put his hat back on. ‘That’s a start.’

  ‘That narrows it down to just the whole county,’ Maddie said. ‘Should be simple.’

  ‘I’m not saying it is simple,’ Tom said, ‘but when there’s a mountain to climb, you have no choice but to start at the foot of it.’

  Ben didn’t feel equipped to climb Salisbury Hill, let alone a mountain. ‘And what am I supposed to do if by some miracle I manage to find this cult? Abseil down the roof and burst through a window like the SAS?’

  ‘You’d be surprised what you can do when the Lord challenges you.’

  Ben looked at the floor. His head was banging like a bailiff’s fist on a door. ‘My mother’s going to go into meltdown.’

  ‘Let’s just try and deal with one thing at a time,’ Tom said. ‘Do you have an address for the folks that hired your dad?’

  ‘It’ll be written down in the appointments book. But they won’t know where the cult is, will they? That’s why they hired us.’

  ‘They must have given your dad some information to work with.’

  The air was hot and heavy, clogging up Ben’s throat. Now he knew how Old Joe felt being zipped up in his “body bag”. Why did this have to happen? Youth club was supposed to be the highlight of his week. He’d spent the last few nights practising new jo
kes with Old Joe. Now the joke was on him.

  ‘It’ll be a start, Ben,’ Maddie said.

  Ben couldn’t get over how weak and scared his father had sounded on the phone. How could he have been reduced to such a pathetic, quivering wreck? His father, the chin-up, back-straight ex-policeman who’d set up Whittle Investigations after taking early retirement from the force. Ben felt as if his whole life was being sucked down a plughole and into a drain.

  ‘Ben?’ Maddie prompted.

  ‘This can’t be happening.’

  ‘We have to try and deal with it.’

  ‘I don’t know what to do. I can’t think straight anymore. My head’s all over the place.’

  Pastor Tom fiddled with the rim of his hat. ‘It’s your choice, son. You either call the police, or you try and work something out yourself.’

  Ben groaned and begged the bailiffs to go away and leave his head alone. ‘I can hardly manage my hair, let alone a rescue mission.’

  ‘You’re stronger than you think, son.’

  ‘And what am I supposed to tell my mother?’

  Tom formed a steeple with his fingers. ‘Explain to her as best you can what has happened and then tell her what you’re going to do about it.’

  ‘Have you met my mother? She frets over what to cook for dinner.’

  ‘So reassure her.’

  Ben laughed. ‘If I tell her I’m going to try and rescue my father from a cult, she’ll be ringing the undertakers to arrange both of our funerals.’

  Tom reached out and touched Ben’s hand. ‘Human beings have an amazing capacity to cope. I shall pray for a successful resolution to this terrible predicament.’

  Ben didn’t believe in God, not as a single entity sitting up in Heaven listening to prayers and dishing out salvation. But he thanked Pastor Tom anyway. Whatever the rights and wrongs of religion, Pastor Tom’s intentions were good. As for his mother, she might need tying to a chair and shooting with a horse tranquilliser dart. ‘You don’t know my mother.’

  ‘The Lord does, son. The Lord knows your mother better than she knows herself. Would you like me to come home with you?’

  Ben took a deep breath. He needed to get his head straight. ‘I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’

  Pastor Tom reached out and patted Ben’s hand. ‘It’s no trouble. No trouble at all.’