“`Just the facts, ma’am.”’
“Exactly.” Ruth crouched down to examine the bookshelf. “I think one of us should pay a visit to the local vicar. You never know, Maurice might have seen fit to bare his soul.”
“Wouldn’t that be nice and simple. He fingers his murderer to the vicar and everything falls into place.” He started to go through the sparse contents of the desk aloud. “Pens, envelopes, writing paper. Look at this, typical anally retentive civil servant-a big pile of receipts, most of them for cabs.”
“Nothing wrong with being anal retentive,” Ruth said tartly.
“Hoping for some tax deduction, I suppose,” Church continued. “A notebook-“
“A lot of these books are new,” Ruth mused. “UFOs, Von Daniken, The Occult by Colin Wilson, Messages from the Dead: A Spiritualists’ Guide. Looks like he’s been reading that magazine you were rambling on about.”
“That’s a bit of a coincidence.”
“Sure. Life’s full of them. Anything in the notebook?”
“The first few pages have been torn out. There’s only one thing in it: a phone number. Barry Riggs. Crouch End UFO Association.”
“Great. Little Green Men got him,” Ruth said wryly. “We should check it out anyway. You never know.”
They caught a cab back to South London and dropped Ruth off first. Church felt chastened by Mrs. Gibbons’ grief. Afraid that the depression would come back to ruin the first halfway-normal mood he had felt in a long time, he quickly switched on the computer and went online. There was an email waiting for him from Laura DuSantiago.
Greetings, Churchill-Dude (No relation, I hope. I don’t want to picture you with a big, fat cigar.)
I get the impression from your last email that you think I’m full of hot air, but you’re too polite to say so. Well, I’ll stop teasing, big boy-I wouldn’t want a *premature* withdrawal on your behalf. Everyone else who emailed me has scarpered before I had the chance to get down to the *meat*. And I better stop now before this becomes a bad Carry On film …
Here’s the dope: the increase in paranormal activity that all the net-nerds noticed started on the same day. Coincidence? I don’t think so. There’s stuff happening around the globe, but the epicentre is the UK-and most of it is happening around places of significance to our pagan/Celtic ancestors. Now, statistically, I know that’s not difficult in an island like ours, but look at the big picture, not the details. I’m not going too fast for you, am I?
And here’s the big story, Morning Glory. I saw something that changed my life. Me, technohead, feet-on-the-ground Laura DuS. Something that all the crazies and peeks of the UFO/Spirit World would give their right arms to see. And losing their right arms would really hamper those types. This was a drug-free, alcohol-free experience, and it talked to me. You want to know what it said, you’ll have to meet me on my own turf. I’m not spreading this stuff around online so I can be branded as another nut.
But here’s a tip: don’t go making plans for the next millennium …
Your new best friend, Laura.
And there, at the end, was the thing that hooked him and made his blood run cold.
PS Before we meet I need to know if this name means anything to you: Marianne.
Church read the line three times, trying to work out if he was going insane, then wondering if someone was playing a nasty trick on him. It could have been another coincidence, but the way they were piling up gave him an eerie feeling of some power behind the scenes manipulating his life. He turned off the computer and busied himself with mundane tasks for the better part of an hour, but it wouldn’t leave him alone and it was only a matter of time before he returned to the keyboard to type out his reply. Then he retired to bed without once looking out of the window into the dark, quiet street.
Ruth reached the church shortly after 9 a.m. It was a bracing morning, with the wind sending the clouds streaking across the blue sky. Standing in the sun, peering at the skeletal trees through screwed-up eyes that cropped out the buildings, Ruth could almost believe she wasn’t in London, away from the smog and the traffic noise and the omnipresent background threat. Sometimes she hated the modern world with a vengeance.
The vicar was in the churchyard, in his shirt-sleeves despite the chill, trimming the hedge with an electric cutter. He was tall with a red face-although that might have been from the exertion-and a balding head with white hair swept back around his ears. The drone of the cutter drowned out Ruth’s first attempt at an introduction, but she eventually caught his eye.
“I said, shouldn’t you have a gardener to do that?” she said.
“Oh, I like to get my hands dirty every now and then. What can I do for you?”
“My name’s Ruth Gallagher. A solicitor. I’m looking into the death of Maurice Gibbons. I was told you knew him.” She was still surprised how quickly people parted with information once she announced her legal background; it was almost as if they considered her a policewoman-in-waiting.
The vicar nodded ruefully. “Poor Maurice. Still no suspect, I suppose.”
“Not yet, but no one’s giving up. There was one particular line of enquiry I wanted to discuss with you. It might be nothing, but Mrs. Gibbons mentioned he came to church the week before his death which was unusual-“
“He was a very troubled man,” the vicar interjected. “He came round to the rectory after the service for a chat. I can’t betray the confidences of the people who come to me …” He paused, weighing up his options. “But with Maurice dead, I don’t see the harm, especially if it gives an insight into his state of mind.” Folding his arms, he stared up at the steeple. “Maurice was concerned about spiritual matters. We discussed, amongst other things, the return of the spirits of the dead, ghosts, you know, and possession by demonic entities. He wanted to know how easy it would be to arrange an exorcism if necessary, and I told him something of that magnitude would have to be sanctioned by the bishop.”
“He thought he was possessed!” Ruth said incredulously.
“No, I didn’t feel that. It was more as if he was talking in general terms, but he was certainly very anxious. He seemed to fear being tormented by the more malignant aspects of the spiritual realm.”
The memory unleashed by the therapist returned in force, and Ruth stifled a shudder.
“Are you feeling all right?” the vicar asked, concerned.
“Fine. Just a chill.” She forced a smile. She didn’t believe in those kind of things, but the coincidence was hard to ignore.
The Victorian house could have been stately, but it had been indelibly scarred by thoughtless inzprovenzent: cheap, UPVC window frames and door, grey plastic guttering, an obtrusive aluminium flue for a gas boiler. Barry Riggs smiled broadly when he answered the door to Church, but it seemed forced, almost gritted. He was around forty, slightly overweight, with a doughy face and glasses that were a little too large. He smelled of cheap aftershave fighting to mask body odour. Inside, he seemed to have the builders in. Planks leaned against the stairs, an empty paint can stood in the hall, there were dust sheets everywhere and a pristine toilet bowl stood in the lounge, but he made no mention of the mess and there was no sound from anywhere else in the house.
“I know why you’re here,” Riggs said conspiratorially as Church was ushered on to the sheet that covered the sofa.
“I did tell you on the phone,” Church replied dryly.
“No, the real reason. Something much bigger than Maurice Gibbons.” He nodded knowingly.
“You better fill me in from the beginning, Barry.” Church was already harbouring doubts about the validity of his visit. As “chief investigator” of the Crouch End UFO Association, Riggs had sounded more authoritative on the phone than he appeared in his natural habitat.
“Maurice heard of my investigations on the grapevine,” Riggs began, sitting a little too close to Church for comfort. “People talk. There’s never any coverage in the media, but you talk to people in the street and they know o
f the importance of my work. It’s the future, isn’t it? Anyway, I digress. Maurice knew I’d uncovered some unarguable evidence about Government knowledge of the UFO threat. I’m not going to go into details now, but let me just say secret base and St. Albans. We can talk about that later if you want.”
“Why did Maurice come to you, Barry?”
“Alien infiltration, Jack. Plain and simple. Maurice was a Government employee. He knew he was a target. He was frightened, Jack, very frightened, and he came to me looking for any information that might protect him. `They walk among us,’ he said. I remember it well. He was sitting just where you are, with his little briefcase. He’d got classified information in it, but he wasn’t ready to show me just then. It was a matter of building trust, but they got to him before he could divulge what he knew.”
“Who got to him?”
“The aliens! In the future, Maurice will be seen as a hero. He was a whistleblower, ready to open up the whole can of worms about the Government selling us down the line for alien experiments.”
Church stared out of the window at the sinking afternoon sun, wishing he had opted for the vicar. “And he told you this? That aliens were after him?”
Riggs paused. “Not in so many words. But he wanted to know everything about my investigations. We ran through the dates and times of sightings, witness reports, everything. He was particularly interested in the descriptions of different races, the Greys and the Nordics and all that. And alien abduction scenarios. What the abductees experienced in real detail. What they heard, lights in the sky. I tell you, Jack, he was here for hours.”
Church stood up quickly before he was overpowered by Riggs’ body odour. “Thank you, Barry. You’ve been very helpful.”
Riggs grinned. “You know, that’s just what Maurice said. `People need to know what’s out there, Barry. They’re sleepwalking into a disaster.”’
“So here are the options. Maurice was crazy. Maurice was overworked and suffering from stress-induced psychosis. Or Maurice was crazy. Either way, it’s a good explanation for why he was wandering along by the river at the crack of dawn.” Church sprawled on the sofa in Ruth’s lounge, looking out at the city lights against the early evening sky.
“Do you think you could possibly be a little more glib?” Ruth said ironically.
Over a take-out curry and a bottle of Chilean red, they had spent half an hour trading information and finding there was no common ground whatsoever.
“You were the sceptical one,” Church replied. “This was supposed to be taking us away from the Devil living under Albert Bridge. Now we have one man thinking Gibbons is being hunted by aliens, another convinced our man is being haunted by ghosts and demons.”
“You’re still skating on the surface, Church. Dig a little deeper.”
“Do you think you can patronise me a little more? I haven’t had my fill yet.”
She laughed and topped up his glass. “The important fact is that Maurice Gibbons was a frightened man. Something was disturbing him enough to seek out the vicar and your UFO loon for information. He knew something.”
“Or he was crazy.”
“He was a civil servant, down-to-earth. If he was frightened, why was he keeping it to himself? There must have been hundreds of people he could have discussed it with, not least his wife.”
“Perhaps he was waiting until he was sure.” Church took a deep swig of his wine and then said out of the blue, “Do you believe in ghosts?”
Ruth looked at him in surprise. “Why do you ask?”
“It doesn’t matter. So where do we go from here? I can’t think of any other lines of enquiry … hang on a minute.” He suddenly stared into the middle distance, ordering his thoughts, then he snapped his fingers. “There’s something we’ve missed.”
Susan Gibbons welcomed them in forty-five minutes later after Church’s phone call had convinced her their visit would only take a few minutes. In Maurice’s room, he went straight to the desk and pulled out the pile of taxi receipts, riffling through them quickly. They were all for a Monday evening and for the same amount.
“So where was he going on a regular basis?” Church asked pointedly. Mrs. Gibbons had no idea. “I think the police looked into this, but didn’t get anywhere,” she said. Church wasn’t deterred. He called the minicab firm. The receptionist asked around in the office and a few minutes later came back with an address.
The house was a small semi in High Barnet; half-rendered, with more UPVC windows and a paved-over front garden where a few yellow weeds forced their way among the cracks. The light that glared through the glass of the front door seemed unpleasantly bright. They rang the bell and it was answered immediately by a woman with dyed black hair and sallow skin. She dragged on a cigarette, eyeing them suspiciously while Ruth ran through her patter. She reluctantly allowed them into the hall, which smelled of cigarettes and bacon fat.
“He came round to see my uncle every week,” she said, glancing at a photo of Gibbons which his wife had lent them. “Queer duck, but he used to perk the old man up. He’s not well, you know. Hasn’t left his bed in weeks. I got lumbered looking after him.” She wrinkled her nose in what could have been disgust or irritation.
“Can we see him?” Church asked.
The woman nodded, then added combatively, “I’m going out soon.”
“Don’t worry, we can let ourselves out,” Ruth said disarmingly. “What’s your uncle’s name?”
“Kraicow,” the woman snapped as if that was all she knew.
She led the way up the stairs and swung open a bedroom door on to a painfully thin old man, his limbs just bone draped in skin. He lay on the top of his bed in striped pyjamas with one arm thrown across his eyes. His hair was merely tufts of silver on his pillow.
“Is it okay if we talk to him?” Church said.
“Just one of you,” the woman said. “He gets very confused if there’s more than one person speaking.” She added obliquely, “He’s an artist, you know. Used to be quite well known.”
The woman left them alone, and Church went to sit by the bed while Ruth watched from the door. Church remained quiet as Kraicow twitched and moaned beneath his arm, but eventually the old man removed it from his face and looked at Church with clear grey eyes, as if he had known he had a visitor all along.
“Hello, I’m Jack Churchill,” Church said quietly. “I hope you don’t mind me coming to see you.”
Kraicow looked away and mumbled something; Church wondered if he’d be able to get any sense out of him at all. But when Kraicow looked back he spoke in a clear, deep voice. “I’m pleased to see any human face after looking at that miserable bitch all day long. She never leaves me alone.”
“You don’t know me,” Church continued, “but I wanted to talk to you about Maurice Gibbons.”
Church wondered how he would be able to discuss the matter without upsetting Kraicow about Gibbons’ death, but the old man said simply, “He’s dead, isn’t he?”
Church nodded.
“I warned him.”
A hush seemed to descend on the house. “Warned him about what?”
Kraicow levered himself up on his elbows so he could look Church in the face. For a moment the old man’s eyes ranged across Church’s features as if he was searching for something he could trust, before slowly lowering himself down with a wheeze. “Maurice saw my breakdown … what the bastards at the health centre call my breakdown,” he began in a voice so low Church had to bend forward to hear him. “It was in the street, in Clerkenwell-where I work. I was making too much noise. Ranting, I suppose. Not surprising under the circumstances. Maurice overheard some of the things I said, and he knew straight away I was telling the truth because he’d seen the same thing too.”
“What had you seen?” Church whispered.
Kraicow licked his dry lips. “You know much about the old myths and legends?”
“It depends which ones.”
“The final battle between Good and Evil. The en
d of this cycle and the start of something new.” The front door slammed loudly; Kraicow’s niece had gone. “The legend is the same all over the world. The End-Time.” Kraicow grabbed Church’s wrist with fingers which seemed too strong for his feeble state. “They’re coming back.”
“Who are?” Church’s mood dampened; more craziness. “Aliens? Demons?”
“No!” Kraicow said emphatically. “I told you, the old myths. Not fairytales, no, no, not folklore!” His eyes rolled back until all Church could see were the whites. “The legends are true.”
“Are you okay?”
Kraicow threw his arm across his face again. “The legends said they’d be back for the final battle and they were right! Do you think we stand a chance against them?”
“Take it easy,” Church said calmly. “Why did Maurice come to see you?”
“He knew they were back! He’d seen them too. He knew they were biding their time, but they’ll be making their move soon-they won’t wait long. The doors are open!”
“Did Maurice say-“
“He wanted to know what to do! He was so frightened. So frightened. He knew they wouldn’t let him have the knowledge for long … they’d get to him. But who could he tell? The bastards put me in here!”
Church sat back in his chair in disappointment; he was getting nowhere. Was Gibbons as crazed as Kraicow, or were his visits some kind of altruistic act? He glanced at Ruth, about to take his leave, but Kraicow grabbed his shirt and dragged him forward.
“Remember the old legend: In England’s darkest hour, a hero shall arise. It’s there. It’s been written.” He took a deep breath and some degree of normalcy returned to him. “You don’t believe me, do you?”
“I’m sorry-
“No, no, it’s crazy talk. I’ve spent too long breathing in those paint fumes.” He chuckled throatily. “Look in the top drawer.”
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