Mitchell, D. M.

by crime The King of Terrors (a psychological thriller combining mystery

  ‘No tea,’ said Styles abruptly. ‘No thank you; we had something on the way here, sir.’ They followed the man down the hall and through into another room.

  ‘It’s a little untidy,’ said Rayne apologetically. ‘I live on my own and I dedicate my time to my work. It sort of takes over. One grows used to living in it and not seeing it.’

  The curtains were fully drawn and obviously made of a very hefty material designed to keep out all the light. The artificial light was bright enough, mainly provided by an array of lamps. They lit up a room dominated by bookcases crammed full of old leather volumes, modern hardbacks and piles of well-loved paperbacks. There was a desk on which a VDU peered from behind precarious stacks of papers and cardboard files, more paper and box files stacked on the floor against the walls. If this were his living room, thought Stafford, he’d hate to see the office.

  ‘Reminds me of my desk,’ Stafford said, and then thought better of it. ‘I mean, I accumulate paper, tons of it, even though it’s supposed to be a paperless office.’

  Rayne shrugged. ‘I did try and tidy it up a little, knowing I had visitors coming, but it might not be immediately apparent to the untrained eye.’ He swept his hand in the direction of a sofa. ‘Please, make yourself comfortable.’

  The two officers sat down. ‘Styles here says you’re quite the famous historian. A number of books published and all that.’

  ‘More than just a number of books,’ Styles interjected. ‘I read Shining a Light on the Dark Ages – a seminal volume. Mr Rayne’s work is highly regarded. They gave you honorary degrees from both Oxford and Cambridge isn’t that right?’

  ‘Rayne waved it away. ‘A little difficult to attend the ceremonies, I admit, and not easy to conduct at night or in the dark. Still, I am flattered you have even heard of me. As you can see, I keep myself to myself.’

  ‘But technology makes the world more accessible,’ said Styles, looking at the computer.

  ‘In the same way it makes privacy less accessible,’ he returned. ‘You know, holding this book makes me feel closer to my dear grandfather.’ He sat down, opening the volume and fanning through the pages. ‘So this is what you came to see me about?’

  ‘Your relationship with Carl Wood first, Mr Rayne,’ said Stafford.

  ‘Like I said, we hadn’t seen each other in a long while.’

  ‘Mrs Wood informs us that Carl Wood, Howard Baxter and you were part of a little group called the Lunar Club.’

  He smiled. ‘That’s right. A long time ago, when we were young. We wanted to change the world, as young people so often do. We met up to discuss theories, have a glass or two of spirits and smoke cigars.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘What else could there be? In any event, we stopped meeting a long time ago.’

  ‘Any particular reason?’ said Styles, cutting across Stafford.

  Rayne regarded the young man. There was something he didn’t like, behind the eyes; something he felt he had to be wary of. ‘No particular reason. We just went our different ways, trod different paths.’

  ‘Did you know Howard Baxter has also died?’ said Stafford.

  Rayne hesitated. ‘Yes, I did hear that. Tragic. I believe he took his own life. I’m not sure of the details.’

  ‘Ever heard of something called A Return to Eden, Mr Rayne?’ asked Styles.

  ‘Can’t say I have.’

  ‘It was the last thing Mr Baxter was working on before he died. It seems Carl Wood and Baxter had words over its potential publication. As if it might be revealing in some way. Perhaps even dangerous?’

  Rayne frowned. ‘Dangerous? I rather think that’s over-egging the pudding, Inspector Styles; history is rarely dangerous.’

  Style’s eyes narrowed. ‘That depends upon what is being revealed.’

  ‘True, I suppose,’ said Rayne. ‘But all the same, I have never heard of A Return to Eden.’

  ‘It appears you are the last of the three, Mr Rayne,’ noted Stafford.

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t know whether I ought to feel glad or sad,’ he replied.

  Stafford reached forward, touched the book in Rayne’s hands. ‘Mr Wood sent me this. When I spoke to him on the phone he told me that Doradus was getting closer and that time was running out. What can you tell us about Doradus?’

  The old man looked from Stafford to Styles. ‘Isn’t it some kind of star? I seem to remember that’s what it is. A bright one.’

  ‘And that’s all you know?’

  He nodded.

  ‘We got the impression from Mr Wood that Doradus was a person,’ said Styles. ‘Think again, Mr Rayne. Did your little Lunar Club ever discuss Doradus?’

  ‘That’s all I know, I’m afraid, Inspector. We never discussed Doradus. We were historians, not astronomers.’

  Stafford ran a finger over his lips. ‘Mr Wood appeared to be frightened, afraid for his life, you might say. He died soon afterwards, on the very day we had arranged to meet with him.’

  ‘He died of a heart attack, I understand,’ said Rayne quickly. Too quickly, he thought, and regretted it.

  ‘Are you aware of anyone that would have wished Mr Wood harm?’

  ‘Not in the time I knew him. As for the last ten years I cannot say, but I doubt it; he was a gentle, kind-hearted man.’

  ‘I find it strange,’ said Stafford, his face falling serious, ‘that Mr Wood sends me this book and points out the very chapter detailing the case your grandfather worked on. You know which chapter I mean?’

  ‘Indeed I do,’ said Rayne. ‘The Body in the Barn. It haunted my grandfather his entire life. He never solved it, you see. And people never let him forget it, which added salt to the wound.’ He closed the book and handed it back to Stafford. ‘Carl was a historian, no doubt possessing many books – I too have books on murder; it is a human condition that will be forever with us, no matter how far back we go or how far forward we reach.’

  ‘Yet he sends me this one, out of his many books,’ said Stafford. ‘You are aware that we are investigating the case of a murdered woman in Manchester.’

  ‘I have seen it on the news, yes.’

  ‘The method used to murder and then dismember her body is exactly the same as that mentioned in the book. The limbs set beside the torso, the head on the whole, and everything covered in quick lime. On the wall was a symbol painted in black, matching precisely that detailed in this book, Mr Rayne. The Body in the Barn might well be describing the scene in the Manchester flat.’

  Rayne’s brow crumpled into a frown. ‘Really? I find that most odd. Are you certain?’

  Stafford ignored the comment. ‘Personally, that’s what I call one hell of a coincidence, don’t you?’

  ‘It is rather strange, I admit that.’

  Stafford leaned forward, the book in both hands. ‘Your grandfather, did he ever discuss the case of the murdered Jimmy Tate?’

  ‘Alas,’ said Rayne, ‘I was only young when he died. He did speak of it, yes, but as I have already said, mainly because it troubled him to the last. Do you think you have a copycat killing on your hands? It would certainly appear so.’

  Stafford answered the question with one of his own: ‘Did he leave any other details, besides that written in this book? Any notes, journals, thoughts scribbled down, for instance.’

  ‘Sorry, no he did not.’

  Styles opened a folder and took out two photographs. He handed them over to Rayne. ‘Recognise these?’

  ‘I take it this is the symbol you talk of.’

  ‘That’s right. The one on your left came from the Manchester flat; the other from a different location.’

  ‘It is the same as that described by my grandfather,’ he admitted, handing them back to Styles.

  ‘Do you have any idea why the book was prevented from being published?’ Stafford asked. ‘Was it something to do with The Body in the Barn case?’

  Rayne shook his head. ‘I don’t know, Inspector,’ he said apologetically. ‘There were a numbe
r of restrictions placed on my grandfather which hampered his investigation, the reasons which were never made clear to him. In the end, my grandfather’s shooting removed him from it altogether. It is difficult not to see a connection between the two, but perhaps that is being a little too imaginative. The stuff of fiction, eh?’ He smiled weakly. ‘Do you know my grandfather called this case his Curse, Inspector?’

  ‘Should I take that as a warning, Mr Rayne?’ said Stafford lightly.

  ‘You are a historian, Mr Rayne; have you ever come across a similar symbol from the past?’ said Styles.

  The tenor of Styles’ voice implied that he had, and Charles Rayne read something deep in the young man’s searching eyes, some knowledge that he knew only they two shared. ‘As far as I am aware most historians do not know the history of everything,’ Inspector Styles.

  ‘Take a closer look,’ Styles insisted, whilst Stafford looked on, a little bemused. ‘Have a best guess stab at interpreting it.’

  Rayne took back the photo. ‘The circle is an ancient symbol, of course, representing something never ending, eternal. Likewise, the serpent features in many cultures. This one, eating its own tail, reminds me very much of the old Viking legend, that the world was made from a slain giant’s eyebrow, sunk into the ocean and surrounded by a serpent, its thrashing causing storms at sea. In this instance, though, I would say it refers to eternity. The star in the centre – well, that could mean anything. We see similar symbols everywhere from on the top of Christmas trees to black magic pentangles. Take your pick.’ He thrust the photo back to Styles, saying politely but firmly: ‘Symbols are not my specialist area.’

  ‘You sure?’ They stared hard at each other.

  Stafford stepped in. ‘As the gentleman says, not his specialist area. What kind of man was your grandfather, Mr Rayne? His success rate, barring the last case, was quite impressive. It’s a shame we know so little about him.’

  ‘He was a persistent and dedicated man, Inspector. A man wedded to the police force. He became a shadow of his former self when he was injured and had to retire prematurely. The police force never left his system.’

  Stafford saw similarities between himself and the long-dead officer. He wondered if he too would ever be able to expunge the force from his body, or would it hang onto it like the effects of a powerful narcotic. There was no rehab for police officers hooked on their careers. He rose from his seat. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Rayne. We shall be in contact if we have further question.’

  ‘I only wish I could have been of more help. I hope it’s not been a wasted trip.’

  Stafford smiled. ‘Can I use your bathroom?’ he asked. ‘A man of my age plans his journeys around toilet stops these days.’

  ‘Certainly. Top of the stairs, first on the left. Careful on the stairs, they are a little worn and narrow.’

  Rayne waited till Stafford had left the room then looked uncomfortably at Styles. ‘Is there something bothering you, Inspector?’

  The young man slipped the photographs back into the folder. ‘My interest in history is more around the Second World War,’ he admitted, wandering over to a bookshelf and scanning the spines with his head cocked to one side.

  ‘An interesting period.’

  ‘Especially fascinated by the German occupation of France. The Resistance.’ Rayne remained silent. Styles pulled a book from a shelf, slid it back in again after checking the cover. ‘People risking their lives to save others, knowing if they were captured helping Allied prisoners or downed airmen back to safety they’d be subject to the utmost cruelty, their families as well. Very brave people in the face of such overwhelming danger.’

  ‘Some causes bring out the very best in people,’ he said. ‘And the worst.’

  ‘I once read a very slim volume that you wrote on medieval symbolism,’ he said, turning to Rayne who raised an eyebrow at the remark. ‘Strange how you conveniently forgot that you’d researched and published a book on the subject, don’t you think?’

  ‘Age does that to people. I have written many books and forgotten many things.’

  Stafford came back into the room. ‘We’ll be leaving you then, Mr Rayne,’ he said. ‘Thank you again for your time.’

  Rayne saw them to the door. Styles went out to the car. Unexpectedly, Rayne caught hold of Stafford’s sleeve. ‘I may be a superstitious old man, Inspector, but I know what happened to my grandfather. Perhaps there really is a curse around the damned thing.’

  He didn’t know quite how to react to the man’s words, thinking at first he meant it in half-jest, but the man’s face bore the leaden lustre of deadly seriousness. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Rayne,’ he said.

  ‘Be careful who you trust,’ Rayne said quietly, his eyes flashing mysteriously towards Styles. Stafford’s lids narrowed. ‘An old adage of my grandfather’s,’ he explained, and he smiled and closed the door after the police officer.

  He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed it on his forehead. His split lips from forcing smiles were steadily weeping blood.

  * * * *

  35

  A Strong Possibility

  He’d never really seen eye to eye with Superintendent Maloney, but Stafford guessed you’d never escape that no matter which profession you found yourself in. Never quite agreeing with your superior. Finding them lacking in some respect. Maybe it was all about bolstering yourself at the expense of another; superficial deference in public, unashamed criticism in private. He never really took to the man. Not that you had to like your boss, but you had at least to respect them to get anywhere. Lose respect you’ve lost the plot and never pick it back up. That there was no love lost between them was common knowledge amongst the team, in part down to him because he’d let it be known what he thought of Maloney. Some might say that was unprofessional; he couldn’t give a toss. That’s the way it was. That’s the way he was.

  The trouble with that sort of stance is that your boss would relish any opportunity to get one back on you. Sooner or later they’d get even. And that time was now, Stafford suspected as he sat in the chair before Maloney’s desk facing a stern-faced Superintendent with a full reservoir of words dammed up behind his lips that he just couldn’t wait to spill out in a torrent. There was a moment’s silence then Maloney let the dam burst.

  ‘What the fuck do you think you are doing, Stafford?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Don’t give me fucking sir! What the hell are you doing chasing all around Derbyshire with this?’ He slammed the copy of True Crimes onto his desk and a pile of paper fluttered at the edges as if nervous and prepared to fly. Not satisfied with this he pushed the book derisively over towards Stafford.

  Superintendent Maloney was a slim man, not very tall, not very broad, white hair clipped real short, like his words, the sort of man who would have been at home in the army if he hadn’t joined the police force. Everything by the book, the rules sacrosanct, a visible displeasure at those who strayed out of line, a pathological hatred of sycophants and men with opinions alike. He told Stafford on meeting him that he encouraged freedom of thought, just not the freedom to express it. That said a lot about him. He was a slight but very tough cookie. A man who was born filled to the brim with naked ambition and looking for something to use it on. Woe betide anyone who stood in the way of that. Stafford had obviously put himself very much in the way, judging from the Super’s puce cheeks. Another one of the reasons he couldn’t wait to finish with the business and climb aboard his camper van.

  ‘You know why,’ Stafford said. ‘The Rayne case in there and the murdered Polish woman – ‘

  ‘Don’t give me that bullshit, Stafford,’ he said. ‘Tell it like it is, like a man. You’ve run out of ideas. You’re grasping at straws. Do you know how all that’s going to look if word gets out that we’re chasing a detective story from an old book?’

  ‘It’s relevant, sir.’

  ‘Not to me it isn’t.’

  ‘I have a duty – ‘

&nbs
p; ‘Your duty, Stafford, is to find the man who murdered that woman, not to go off on wild goose chases that threaten to bring the good name of this place into disrepute, make it a laughing stock.’

  ‘With respect, sir,’ he said, feeling he’d choke on the word respect. ‘You know as well as I that it is not a wild goose chase. There is a valid connection. We have the deaths of two other men –‘

  ‘The historians? One of them a suicide, another a heart attack. You’re beginning to see things, Stafford.’

  ‘The murder in the book is a dead ringer for the murder of the woman.’

  ‘A bizarre coincidence, no more. Anyhow, we’re finished with this debacle. The case is over. We have our murderer.’

  Stafford’s mouth hung open slightly. ‘Sorry, sir, I didn’t quite get that.’

  ‘You heard me OK. We have our man. Whilst you’ve been running around chasing smoke and mirrors people here have been doing real police work. We have him banged up.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Heniek Pawlowski.’

  ‘Her boyfriend? That’s absurd. We had him in already. He’s in the clear. His alibis stack up.’

  ‘He lied, and everyone lied on his behalf; they pulled the wool over your eyes and your checks simply weren’t robust enough to see through his little game. He’s got the motive, too. He got jealous and possessive all at once, got angry, killed her. End of story.’

  Stafford shook his head. ‘The murder was ritualised, not carried out in a fit of anger. The charge won’t stick, it has too many holes.’

  ‘Watertight. We have a full confession,’ he said, leaning back in his chair. He took the book and dropped it into the waste paper bin. ‘You’re off the case, Stafford. Thankfully it will all be over and done with before you can do any more harm.’

  ‘You can’t be serious?’

  ‘I’m never anything but serious.’ His face twisted into what Stafford presumed was an attempt at compassion, something that didn’t sit too well on his features, as if alien to them and he needed the practice. ‘Look, man, you’re what – two, three months away from retirement? You don’t need this aggro. Let’s call it succession planning for continuity’s sake. Time for a gradual slide into retirement, not thrust into something that’s clearly too much for you at this stage in your career. You’ve had a good innings, Stafford; do you really want to go out with a miserable failure as your last outing? Quit whilst you’re still ahead.’