Ritual

by Ryan Casey

  He had to behave if he wanted to keep his job intact. If he wanted to keep his hefty pension alive. His future, Hannah’s future, Sam’s future. He had to make compromises on justice if it meant their security.

  “The first case was in 1974. Well, the first I was aware of anyway. Could go back way further than that. I was working on the ’95 case when it all came to light, but anyway. ’74. July. Hot summer, apparently. Girl called Julia Patricks found washed up in Morecambe Bay. Seagulls were already chewing down on her mouldy skin by the time the police got to her. M etched on her stomach.”

  He leafed over to the darkened, crinkled pages Brian had seen originally. The ones with the girl, eyes crushed, ears snipped. Blood splattered around the insides of her thighs, vagina stretched and split.

  “Then ’95. January. Case I’m workin’ on. Guy called Alistair Crowley. Not a particularly likeable guy. Used to bully his wife. Beat her too.”

  He turned the pages so another set of documents were on show. On the top one, in better condition, a picture of a chubby man in foetal position. At first Brian thought he was crying. But no. Course he wasn’t crying. His eyes had been crushed. An M was etched onto his stomach. Just like Julia Patricks in 1974. Just like Harry Galbraith and Carly Mahone in 2015. Just like the unidentified victim.

  “Starting to see a pattern yet?” George asked.

  Brian nodded. A sickly taste filled his mouth when he saw the puncture marks on the skin of both Julia Patricks and Alistair Crowley. “So it’s a historical serial killer. A—a cold case.”

  George smiled at that. And Brian thought it was just about the most sincere smile he’d seen on George’s face since he got into his car in the middle of the night. “Not just a cold case,” he said.

  He folded back the documents. Shoved them in the black folder. “I was workin’ on the Alistair Crowley case. And I started noticing stuff. Things weren’t adding up. DNA where it shouldn’t be. Evidence and stuff just … just fallin’ into place a little more easily than it should be. You get what I’m saying?”

  Brian didn’t want to reveal his thoughts all too clearly. But the mention of things not adding up, of evidence seeming way too … convenient. He understood that. He’d seen it with Joe Kershaw. With the dismissal of the hair as doll hair.

  “I still don’t understand what you’re getting at,” Brian said.

  George looked out of the passenger window. It was worthless. Pitch black out there. Not a movement. Not a sound. “I did some digging. Some real digging. The documents at the back here,” he said, fishing out some more papers. “I found evidence of a religious sect. Or a cult, whatever. A cult that calls itself the Children of the Light. Bible term. Thessalonians 5.5. But that’s about as far as the Christianity goes. Anyway, this cult. We’ll call them a cult ’cause that’s exactly what they are. They prey on younger people.”

  “Kids?”

  “No. People who’ve just left college. People who aren’t sure where they’re going in their lives. Younger people. I mean not exclusively—there’s older members too. People who need some kind of help. Some kind of support network that the doctors or the therapy groups can’t provide. People who want to feel young forever.”

  Brian didn’t know much about this Children of the Light and already his skin was crawling. “And Julia Patricks and Alistair Crowley were members?”

  “They were members, yeah. Until the Children decided they didn’t want ’em anymore. Until Patricks and Crowley decided they couldn’t go through with some of their … their initiations.”

  A memory flashed in Brian’s mind. A memory of Alison West. “Level Ten.”

  George’s bushy eyebrows frowned. “Yeah. Level Ten. How do you know about Level Ten?”

  He shook his head. “One of Carly Mahone’s friends. She was … she claimed she was in a religious organisation with Carly when they were younger. And that something happened. Something happened at the top of Pendle Hill. Something Carly couldn’t go through with.”

  George scratched at his stubble. Dandruff flaked down from it. “That adds up.”

  “What adds up?”

  “If Carly’s been killed. For something she didn’t do. It adds up. Especially if she couldn’t reach Level Ten.”

  “What about her husband?”

  “Who?”

  “Harry. Harry Galbraith. Surely he can’t’ve been in this cult too?”

  George nodded. “Don’t underestimate the Children of the Light’s ruthlessness. That’s rule number one. Might come across as some fancy weekly orgy but it’s when you climb up the ranks that you start realising what’s really going on.”

  “What is Level Ten?” Brian asked.

  George’s face turned pale. Right in an instant, the colour drained from it. Like he was recalling a memory.

  And then he blinked. Looked back at Brian. And only then did Brian smell the sour hint of old whisky on his breath. “I dunno. Nobody knows.”

  “You serious?”

  “I’m serious. And it’s not that you should be worrying about anyway. It’s rule number two you should be worrying about.”

  He looked into George’s green eyes. Saw they were bloodshot. Didn’t buy the bullshit about not knowing what Level Ten was. Didn’t buy it one bit. “What’s rule number two?”

  George looked over his shoulder. Flinched, like he’d heard something. Then cleared his throat. Put the folder on Brian’s lap.

  “Rule number two is not to underestimate just how powerful the Children of the Light are.”

  Brian looked down at the folder on his knees. George grew twitchier.

  “I don’t get it,” Brian said.

  “Get what?”

  “How they’ve got away with murder for so many years.”

  It was then that George laughed. It was a splitting, disorienting laugh that creeped Brian right out. Maniacal. Insane.

  “You still don’t get it, do you?” George asked.

  Brian didn’t respond. Didn’t want to give George the pleasure of getting another thing over him.

  “You see it but you refuse to see it. Just like so many other officers. Just like so many over the years. And there was me looking at your past and thinking maybe you’d be different.”

  A shiver ran up Brian’s back. “What do you know about my past?”

  George looked him in his eyes. “Not nearly as much as the Children of the Light. Especially not with their … with their sources.”

  More silence from George. Brian heard nothing but his breathing and the sound of his own heart. He looked at his phone. 12.30 a.m. He wanted to get back to Hannah. He needed to get back to Sam. This wasn’t right. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t—

  “Three days after a raid on the Children of the Light’s suspected church down by the Ribble—against my superiors’ orders—my house was burned down. Now the police claim it was a gas fire. Freak accident. But I know to fuck it was arson.”

  Brian shook his head. Gripped the steering wheel. He could sense what was coming. He could sense it but he didn’t want to believe it, didn’t want to accept it.

  “But I didn’t let that stop me,” George said. “If anything, I started digging deeper. And I kept on digging until I got bundled into the back of a van and driven into the Ribble to drown. Almost died. Should’ve died. Hell, to them I am dead. And that’s how I hope it stays.”

  Brian still didn’t understand. And yet he did. He could see the signposts. Signposts leading to a road he didn’t want to accept existed. Signposts he’d tried to avoid his entire career, even after what happened with BetterLives, with Scott, even after every twist of justice he’d seen.

  “The Children of the Light are a murderous bunch of cunts,” George said, leaning right over the handbrake and tapping on the folder. “You’ll soon learn that for yourself. But just know one thing. Know one fucking thing.”

  Brian’s stomach twisted. He thought he saw shapes in the darkness outside. Thought he saw movement.

  �
��Don’t go to your superiors about this. Do not go down that road. Do every fucking thing your superiors tell you to do, then do the opposite in private. Because the Children of the Light ain’t just a cold case. It ain’t just a fucking bunch of lost leads.”

  He flipped back open the folder. Slammed his hand down on a crinkled document.

  “There’s a reason I lost my job. A reason they tried to kill me. A reason the people at the top couldn’t be doing with someone like me sniffing around. And you know that reason. You must know it already. You must see now.”

  The eagerness to blame Joe Kershaw.

  Alison West’s fear: They’re watching us.

  The hair.

  “The Children of the Light ain’t any cold case. The Children of the Light are being covered up by the Preston police force. And it’s been that way for fucking decades.”

  Thirty-Two

  Even though Brian stood in the inquiry room the following day, air conditioning full blast, he wasn’t there. Not really.

  He stood at the back of the room with his arms folded. Looked over the heads of the officers sat watching Marlow. Marlow’s lips moving. Words coming out. Words Brian could hear but words he couldn’t understand, couldn’t comprehend. And he wasn’t even sure it mattered if he understood them after what former detective George Andrews told him last night.

  Police officers were covering up the Children of the Light.

  George had been sacked—almost killed—for digging too deep under the surface.

  And now Brian knew the truth.

  Now, the lantern of responsibility burned in his hand.

  “Forensics have identified the third victim as Jodie Kestrel,” Marlow said, pointing to the pinned up shots of Jodie’s decaying corpse. “Last seen a couple of days ago by some friends. Lived alone last we heard. Always was a bit of a loner, apparently. Some ramblers found her golden retriever in the woods a fair few miles away from where she was killed. Traces of blood in there, too. So it looks like whoever did this followed the same procedure as they did with Harry Galbraith and Carly Mahone.”

  The words just fuzzed through Brian’s mind. He took them in half-heartedly, tried to look interested as the icy breeze of the air con contrasted the muggy heat outside. Jodie Kestrel. Another victim of the Children of the Light. He had to learn about her past. Had to find out what she knew.

  He had to find out whether she too had reached Level Nine.

  Whether she’d defected.

  “Interestingly, we’re getting word that Jodie’s body state suggests she was killed before Harry and Carly,” Marlow said. “Which means it’s entirely possible our friend Joe Kershaw’s behind this after all.”

  “How’s he doing?” Arif asked.

  “Still in critical,” Marlow said. “Feeding him through a tube. Switch the fucking life support off for all I care.”

  I bet you’d say that, Brian thought. I bet I know why you’d turn the life support off.

  Marlow paced around the front of the inquiry room. Some of the officers coughed and sneezed, hay fever season in full grip.

  “Not a lot we can do while Kershaw’s in critical,” he said. “Just speak to family members. Convene. Try and figure out any extra forensic links. But it looks to me like we’ve got our man. Just a pity we couldn’t kick the shit out of him for it while he’s conscious.”

  “What if another body turns up?” Brian said.

  The whole inquiry room turned. Looked at him. He saw the puzzlement on their faces. Saw their curiosity.

  “What’s that, Brian?” Marlow asked.

  Brian tensed his fists. He had to keep his calm. Had to keep his cool.

  But he also had to be honest.

  “If another body shows up. And it turns out this one’s killed after Joe Kershaw tried to kill himself. What happens then?”

  Marlow stared right into his eyes. A few of the officers around the inquiry room whispered, some of them tutted and sniggered.

  “If another body shows up then we change our approach,” Marlow said, cool as ever.

  But Brian heard the subtext beneath his words.

  Heard the apprehension.

  Then Marlow looked away and the tension depleted.

  “Review whatever evidence we’ve got. CCTV, forensics. Make sure everything’s on record, make sure the families and the friends are all up to date, finish the HtoHs and the searches. But for now I think it’s time to put the brakes on this case. Just for a while.”

  “Like in 1995?” Brian asked.

  Marlow looked at him again. But this time he didn’t look with curiosity. He looked with apprehension. Uncertainty.

  “Been drinking again, Bri?” DS Wellington said, scheming little grin across his face.

  “Drinking?” someone called. “I heard he was a cutter.”

  Brian’s skin turned hot. Sniggers. Laughter. Never before had Brian felt more isolated amongst his own—and he’d felt fucking isolated in the past so that was saying something.

  “Enough,” Marlow said. “Brian’s a new dad. He’s not getting a lot of sleep, no doubt. And he can’t be happy about losing a friend.”

  Brian lifted his head. Looked right at Marlow. “Losing a friend?”

  Marlow frowned. “Didn’t you hear? Your new friend Alison West showed up dead yesterday afternoon.”

  A shooting pain split through Brian’s chest.

  “How …”

  “Out shopping in town. Stepped off the kerb in front of a bus, I hear. Unfortunate. But out shopping. So hardly the big runaway you tried to have us believe.”

  “Think Bri just had a crush,” Finch said.

  Annie just sat quietly, didn’t join in the prodding of Brian, which he would’ve appreciated if he weren’t in a disbelieving stupor about Alison West’s death.

  “She … she was worried,” Brian said, lips drying. “About—about something like this happening.”

  Marlow scoffed. “Aren’t we fucking all? It’s why we do our green cross code.”

  “Fuck you,” Brian said.

  A collective gasp around the inquiry room. An instant morsel of regret swelling inside Brian.

  Marlow’s cheeks went red. Burst blood vessels made themselves prominent across his flaky nose. “What did you just say?”

  Brian thought about repeating what he’d said. He thought about telling Marlow exactly what he knew. About the meeting with George Andrews. About the evidence of a police cover-up—the evidence he’d been initially sceptical about until he saw the level of evidence they were actually covering up on behalf of the Children of the Light. And for what? Money. Dirty fucking money.

  Like a Preston mafia, only in the form of a bunch of manipulative religious nutcases.

  But he didn’t speak his mind.

  He didn’t say another word.

  Instead, he turned around.

  Walked towards the inquiry room door.

  “Brian?” Marlow called. “Where the hell do you—”

  “Need to puke,” Brian said.

  He heard more laughs and whoops as he barged through the door, as Marlow called back for him. And although he wasn’t going to puke, he could’ve done. He could’ve done after hearing what had happened to Alison West. After seeing firsthand just how far the police were willing to go to cover up the Children of the Light’s activities.

  Just for money.

  All just for money.

  He walked down the corridors. Walked past fellow officers, faces he recognised, nodded at, smiled at. But he didn’t know who to believe in. He didn’t know who to trust. He’d never felt so alone in his workplace, as he marched towards the exit. He’d never felt such an outsider in his own environment. He’d never wanted to retire and get away more.

  But he couldn’t retire. Not yet.

  Because there was something he had to do.

  He walked out the main door of the station and reached into his pocket for his phone.

  Opened up the photograph he’d taken of the decisiv
e document right at the back of the folder.

  The one with the address on.

  River Edge Methodist Church.

  And then he put his phone back in his pocket and he looked outside the station at the traffic as it built up on its way into Preston city centre.

  He had to go to the church.

  He had to meet the leader of the Children of the Light, face to face.

  And somehow, he had to put a stop to it once and for all.

  Somehow.

  Thirty-Three

  For the supposed hub of a murderous cult, there was nothing particularly off-ish about the River Edge Methodist Church.

  That said, every church had been saying that since its inception.

  Brian walked up the steps of the church. It was a small hexagonal building built in that old sandy brick that was all the rage in the eighties and early nineties. Looked like the old church had been knocked down and renovated. Talk about the preservation of the classics, the respect of culture.

  That said, he wasn’t sure Preston had all that much culture worthy of respecting. Not anymore.

  The wind blew strongly against him as he ascended. Underneath the wind’s bite, a warmth. The warmth of the summer sun finally poking through the clouds. The sounds of seagulls chirping as they swooped down on the River Ribble. The rattle of trains as they crossed the old metal bridge, departed Preston, got the hell out of this dead end town once and for all.

  He walked up to the door. Unspectacular. Part glass, part wood. Wasn't sure what he’d been expecting really. Just something … different. Different to this. And that made him wonder about what George Andrews told him. About this being the place. The place where secrets festered. Where monsters slept.

  He reached up and pressed against the wooden door. He knew he was stupid coming here. Especially after what happened to George Andrews when he’d dug too deep. And he knew he was an idiot storming out of the station in the way he had. But shit, he’d been doing stupid, idiotic things all his career. Weirdly, they’d got him a lot further than the bulk of his colleagues. Not in his personal life, not in health—fuck, don’t even mention his health—but in his job. In his duty as a police officer. Not in terms of ticking boxes, hitting targets, turning up nine ’til five and doing what he had to do. But in his actual duty as a police officer. As a man of the law. A man who wanted justice and nothing more.