Athame (pron. ath-a-may) – name of knife placed on the altar (should always be blunt), along with a chalice (of wine or whatever), salt, a wand, hawthorn blossom, a pink or orange candle and a pentagram.
Megan felt her mouth go dry as she stared at the word on the page in front of her. Then her eyes moved down the page, taking in the circle marked with compass points and the names of the four elements. Turning the paper over she gasped when she saw what was on the other side. Two pentagrams, with arrows indicating which way they had been drawn, sat side by side. One was subtitled Invoking Pentagram and the other Banishing Pentagram.
Megan shuddered and laid the file down on the table. Forcing open the stiff ring-binder she pulled out a sheaf of plastic pages and began pulling out the contents. The third one she came to contained another sheet of notepaper. This one bore a date. It had been written more than two years ago, on the thirtieth of April:
Tonight he gave me the five-fold kiss. At the Rite of Beltaine he chose me from the women of the coven to be his High Priestess, anointing and kissing me on the head, lips, breasts, belly and feet.
The room was lit with candles and the air sweet with incense and the scent of hawthorn blossom. They were all watching. I felt wonderful. Powerful. I took the athame and drew pentagrams in the air at the four points of the circle. We raised a cone of power and drank metheglin from the chalice.
I was the Beltaine Maiden. The Witch of Spring. I wore a silver robe and a crescent moon in my hair. Some covens perform their rites naked, or skyclad as Raven calls it. We wear robes with nothing underneath. If anything it is more arousing than wearing nothing at all.
Now I am an initiate of Wicca I will need to compile my own Book of Shadows. It will have to be concealed from Richard and the children. I am not sure where yet.
Megan lost track of the time as she pulled out page after page of handwritten accounts of Wiccan spells and rituals. The name Raven cropped up time after time. There was never any other name alongside it. Nothing to convey whether this was a real name or some alias assumed for the purposes of witchcraft.
When she came to the last page Megan threw the empty folder on the table and sank back into one of the cane armchairs. She felt hollow inside. In her hand she was holding evidence that would set any prosecution counsel dancing round the room in glee. How could she have got it so wrong?
She thought about what she had just read, trying to be objective. There was no proof that Tessa was the author. Her name appeared nowhere. But Megan had no real doubt that she had written the notes and it would be a simple matter to compare the handwriting with letters signed by Tessa.
Nevertheless, Megan thought, it seemed bizarre that such stuff had been penned by a woman who, two years later, was described as a pillar of the local church. She looked again at the last sheet of paper she had uncovered:
Raven made love to me in the ruins at Whiteladies Abbey. We were not supposed to be there. He was due to give a talk tonight about Candle Magic. We had booked Saint Paul’s church hall and about fifty people turned up to hear him. But the Born Agains were out in force. They blocked the doors and refused to let us in. They were waving banners with phrases like ‘Get Thee Behind Me Satan’ and other such rubbish. They have no idea, these people. They think all magic is Black Magic. They condemn us from a position of total ignorance. It is people like them who were responsible for the Burning Times.
The Born Agains. Not a very flattering description of the people Tessa had apparently regarded as her friends when she died. So what had happened, Megan wondered? Had the decision to give up her lover been fuelled by a conversion experience? And how would he have reacted to her joining the ranks of the enemy? Whichever way round things had happened, Megan thought, there was plenty of motive for murder.
She was so absorbed that she failed to recognise the tone of her mobile phone, which was ringing inside her bag on the kitchen table. The policeman brought it through to the conservatory, holding the bag out in front of him as if it were a bomb about to explode.
She looked at him uncomprehendingly for a moment before taking it from his outstretched hand.
‘Hello, Megan.’ Steve Foy’s voice was gruff and he sounded excited. ‘I think we’ve got him!’
Chapter 6
‘You say she actually mentions him by name? Steve Foy was leafing through Tessa Ledbury’s cookery file.
‘Yes,’ Megan said, ‘It’s always Raven, though. She never calls him Sean.’
‘This is unbelievable, isn’t it?’ Steve Foy was shaking his head as he pulled out the sheets of notepaper. ‘And it was in the conservatory?’
Megan nodded.
‘Well the SOCOs are going to get a damn good kick up the arse for missing it. What did you say she called it?’
‘A Book of Shadows. It’s a sort of work book for a newly initiated witch. But this is more than just a description of rituals and spells. It’s a diary of her affair as well.’
‘Hmm.’ Foy put the file on his desk. ‘Well this is really going to nail him. This and the little haul we picked up at his house. Want to come and see?’
He led Megan down two flights of stairs to a windowless room in the basement of the police station. On the left-hand side was a collection of objects in clear plastic bags. Something glinted in the light from the fluorescent strip on the ceiling and Megan lifted it carefully off the table. It was a silver dagger, its handle inlaid with ivory stars and crescent moons.
‘So this is the Athame.’ Megan turned it over in her hands, examining the edges of the blade. ‘Feels pretty blunt, doesn’t it?’ She handed it to him. ‘That’s what it said in Tessa’s notes: “Athame should always be blunt.” Have you had chance to run a comparison with the stab wounds yet?’
‘Not yet, no,’ Foy was looking at her in surprise. ‘How did you know it was pronounced like that? I’d never even heard the word till Kate O’Leary told me.’
‘Oh, she’d written it phonetically in brackets,’ Megan said. ‘It was part of a very detailed diagram of a Wiccan altar and a description of the various objects they have on it.’
‘What is this word, Wicca?’ Foy asked. ‘I keep hearing Kate saying it.’
‘It’s the old word for witchcraft,’ Megan said. ‘Dates back to Anglo-Saxon times, I think.’
‘You seem very knowlegeable on the subject, I must say.’ He was looking at her suspiciously. ‘I can’t believe you’ve picked all this up in an afternoon at Tessa Ledbury’s house.’
Megan glanced at the rest of the paraphernalia on the table before answering. ‘When I was a student I had a friend who was involved in a coven. She tried to persuade me to go along. Lent me all her books.’
‘But you didn’t go?’
‘Yes I did, actually. Just the once. There was no dancing naked round bonfires or anything. It was held in someone’s living room. They’d decked it out with a lot of candles and incense and we were all given robes to wear. I was quite enjoying it up to the point where we were asked to leave the room so the High Priest could have ritual sex with the High Priestess.’ Megan sniffed and picked out a book from the pile on the table, studying the crude drawing of three naked women its cover.
‘What did you do?’ Steve Foy’s eyes were like saucers.
Megan replaced the book and picked up another. ‘Not a lot,’ she said. ‘We sat in the kitchen listening to the moans and groans coming under the door and after about five minutes I decided I’d had enough, so I made my excuses and left, as they say in the gutter press.’
‘Well, well.’ Foy’s expression had changed to something bordering on admiration. ‘Why didn’t you say anything to Kate this morning? She was giving you chapter and verse on witchcraft like she was the world’s leading expert.’ He folded his arms and leaned against the table. ‘She nearly blew a gasket when I told her I was bringing you in on the interrogation, you know.’
‘I can imagine,’ Megan said, picking up a disc-shaped brass altar-piece with a pentagram etched into its
surface, ‘I bet she was jumping up and down when she saw this, wasn’t she?’
‘Well wouldn’t you be? I mean it’s a pentagram, for heaven’s sake!’
‘I’m not blind, Steve.’ She looked him straight in the eye. ‘And yes, at this point the evidence does look pretty damning. But I don’t need to remind you that it’s all circumstantial, do I?’ She paused but he said nothing. ‘All we know for sure,’ she went on, ‘Is that Sean Raven was screwing Tessa Ledbury until she dumped him about a year ago. That does not automatically make him the killer.’
‘But come on, Megan, the pentagram…’
‘Could easily have been used by someone who wanted to implicate Raven,’ she interrupted. ‘That woman, for instance, the one who told you about him … what’s her name?’
‘Carole-Ann Beddowes.’
Megan nodded, picturing the woman in the red Fiesta. ‘Yes, her. She’s obviously out for some sort of revenge, isn’t she?’
‘Tell me about it.’ Foy raised his eyebrows and looked at the ceiling. ‘I didn’t have chance to tell you, did I?’
‘What?’ Megan turned to him sharply.
‘A couple of years back Carole-Ann Beddowes accused Sean Raven of rape. He was acquitted for lack of evidence.’
‘Acquitted?’
‘Yes.’
‘Does he have form for any other sexual offence?’
‘Not exactly, no.’
‘What do you mean, not exactly?’
‘He was convicted of bigamy last year. Must have been around the same time Tessa gave him the elbow. He got eighteen months for that and a fraud charge. Only came out of prison in March. So you see, apart from the bit about Tessa being stalked from the precinct, Raven fits the profile really well. He’s the right age, he’s been inside and he’s got a history of offences against women.’
‘Hmm.’ The tiny lapis lazuli stud that matched her cobalt blue jacket twitched as her nostrils flared. A bigamy conviction and an unproven rape charge. Not exactly incontrovertible evidence of a violent hatred of women. She looked at Foy. ‘Did Carole-Ann Beddowes say he was physically violent when she accused him of raping her?’
‘No. She said he spiked her drink.’
‘And what about these wives? Did he ever attack them?’
‘Well we haven’t been able to trace his first wife yet,’ Foy said, ‘but his current one’s in an interview room upstairs. We’ll have a go at her once we’ve decided how to play him. By the way,’ he added, holding the door for her, ‘the Crimewatch people are gagging for us – you okay for Saturday night?’
Megan frowned. ‘What do you mean, “gagging”? What have you told them?’
‘Well, I had to sex it up a bit, obviously,’ Foy shrugged. ‘I wanted to make sure we got a decent slot. Probably academic now, of course, with our mate Sean under arrest. But you never know who it’ll bring crawling out of the woodwork evidence-wise.’ He grinned as he ushered her along the corridor.
Megan blinked. He was enjoying this. Revelling in it. He was going to appear on national television regardless of anything Sean Raven was about to say. What if he mentioned his theory of an occult connection? What would that do to Raven if the case ever came to court? If he was innocent? He’d be tried and convicted by the media before he could open his mouth to deny it.
Her instincts told her to pull out now. Tell Foy she’d have nothing to do with his TV appeal. But what would that achieve? He’d have free rein then. At least she could put across an alternative view. Play down the occult thing.
‘Okay,’ she nodded. ‘What about the reconstruction?
‘They’re filming it tomorrow morning,’ he said. ‘Kate’s standing in for Tessa.’
‘Kate?’ Megan thought this an odd choice, given that Kate was dark-haired with a characteristic pale Irish skin, while Tessa had been blonde with a liberal sprinkling of freckles.
‘She’ll be wearing a wig, of course,’ Foy chuckled. ‘She’s the same age and same height as Tessa, and she really wanted to do it.’
‘Really?’ Megan muttered. She wondered how many other members of Foy’s team were closet TV wannabees.
*
Delva was asleep when the phone rang. She had gone to bed as soon as she got back from Wolverhampton, hoping that an afternoon nap would help reduce her puffy eyes and get her looking slightly more viewer-friendly for tomorrow’s early bulletins.
‘Delva it’s Des…’
‘Des?’ The sound of the news editor’s voice put her into a blind panic. ‘Oh hell! What time is it?’ She peered at the clock through bleary eyes, her heart racing as she tried to force her brain into gear.
‘Relax, woman, it’s still Wednesday – you’re not due in for another twelve hours.’
‘Oh … right…’ Delva let out a sigh of relief and flopped back on the pillow. But her head was pounding. Bastard, she thought. He’s enjoying this. ‘What do you want, Des?’ she mumbled, trying without much success to keep the irritation out of her voice.
‘Just had a tip-off from a mate of mine at Tipton Street nick,’ he replied. ‘They’ve lifted someone for the Pendleton murder.’
‘You’re joking?’ Delva sat bolt upright in bed, suddenly remembering the woman in the café.
‘His name’s Sean Raven,’ Des went on, ‘They haven’t charged him yet but this copper I spoke to reckons it won’t be long before they do. And get this.’ He paused and Delva heard a crackling at the other end of the phone, followed by something that sounded like teeth biting crisp lettuce. She grimaced at the thought of Des munching away at something as he was talking. When he spoke again his voice was muffled. ‘The guy’s heavily into black magic,’ he said, ‘The occult, witchcraft, that kind of thing.’
Delva was not sure she had heard him right. ‘Black magic? Did you say black magic?’
‘Yeah. Witches’ covens, blood sacrifices – the whole nine yards.’ His voice was clearer now. ‘Bloody brilliant story! Anyway, I want to start doing a background piece right away. I know we won’t be able to run anything till he comes to trial but I want you to start putting out a few feelers.’
Delva frowned. She could hear the excitement in his voice and she wondered what was coming next.
‘What I’m really after is for someone to infiltrate this coven he was supposed to be running,’ Des’s voice was getting louder as his enthusiasm took off. ‘I want to do a big feature on witchcraft in Wolverhampton. It might even make a documentary.’
‘Des, you’re not expecting me to con my way into some coven, are you? You don’t seriously think I’d get away with…’
‘No, of course not,’ Des interrupted, ‘I’m not that stupid. It’d have to be one of the researchers. Someone who’s never been on screen, anyway.’ Delva heard another strange noise down the line. This time it sounded as if he was blowing his nose. ‘No, what I want you to do is use your contacts to get the lowdown on the bloke,’ Des said. ‘Remember that documentary you did last Christmas? The one about the profiler – Megan whatsername?’
‘Yes, what about her,’ Delva said guardedly
‘Well according to my mate in Wolverhampton she’s at Tipton Street now. He said they’ve brought her in to help them design an interview strategy – something like that, anyway. So I was thinking. You and her hit it off quite well, didn’t you?’ He paused but Delva remained silent.
‘Delva, you still there?’
‘Yes.’ She knew what he was going to ask and she was wracking her brains to think of a way out of it.
‘Thought you’d fallen asleep on me!’ His voice was still buzzing with the thrill of the chase. ‘Listen, I want you to call her up and pick her brains. She owes us big time. Must have had offers pouring in after that doco went out.’
It would be a waste of breath, Delva knew, to remind Des that Megan had been reluctant to make the documentary in the first place. That she was a respected academic who already had more outside work than she could handle. Des had the instincts of a Rottweiler when it ca
me to a good story, and he didn’t care who had to be savaged in order to get it.
‘Okay, I’ll phone her,’ she said resignedly. ‘But don’t build your hopes up. She’s as tight as a cat’s arse when it comes to talking about her police work, you know.’ Delva felt bad about stooping to his level, describing the woman she had come to think of as a friend in those terms. But it was the only way to get the message across. She hoped that by the time she gave him the news that Megan wasn’t going to play ball he might have calmed down a bit.
‘Well, we’ll see.’ There was a devious edge to his voice and Delva got the impression there was something he wasn’t telling her. There was no way he could know what the woman in the café had told her. She had decided to lie to him about what happened. Less hassle that way. As far as he knew the woman had failed to show. She glanced at the clock. It was nearly six hours since she had made that phone call to Steve Foy. The man they were holding now had to be the guy Tessa was supposed to have had an affair with.
‘Can you get on to it now?’ Des’s voice cut across her thoughts. ‘I’ll get someone else to do the early shift. Give us a bell after the programme tonight – let me know what she says, yeah?’
As soon as she replaced the receiver the phone rang again.
‘Delva? It’s Steve Foy. Thought you might like to know that tip-off was bang on target!’
‘What, you mean you’ve charged someone?’ Delva feigned ignorance.
‘Not yet, no, but it’s looking pretty good. I owe you a drink, okay?’
‘Oh, great!’ She tried to muster an enthusiasm she didn’t feel. ‘Is it the bloke in the photo? Off the record, I mean.’
‘Yeah. Name’s Sean Raven. Right weirdo he is, too. Can’t go into detail, obviously, but he certainly fits the bill.’
‘Steve,’ Delva smiled to herself, astonished at the brilliant solution that had suddenly flashed into her mind. ‘Don’t s’pose you could let me have the phone number of the woman in the car, could you? It’s just for future reference, really – if it comes to court we’ll probably want to interview her for a backgrounder.’
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