[Ben Whittle Investigations 01.0] The Revelation Room

by Mark Tilbury

  The Revelation Room

  Mark Tilbury

  Contents

  Also by Mark Tilbury

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Also by Mark Tilbury

  A Note From Bloodhound Books

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright © 2017 Mark Tilbury

  The right of Mark Tilbury to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2017 by Bloodhound Books

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

  Also by Mark Tilbury

  The second part of Mark Tilbury’s gripping Ben Whittle mystery series is now available:

  The Eyes of The Accused

  Have you read Mark Tilbury’s criticcaly acclaimed stand-alone thriller The Abattoir of Dreams?

  Dedicated to George Adam Simmons, my Grandson.

  1

  Geoff Whittle stood in a tree twenty feet above the ground and stared at death. Death stared back at him in the guise of an automatic rifle with sunlight glinting off the barrel. A man wearing bright yellow overalls levelled the weapon at Geoff’s head. Geoff propped his long-range camera in the fork of two branches, wrapped his arms around the trunk for support, and tried to make contact with God for the first time since his dog had got run over when he was a kid.

  A short fat man accompanying the shooter asked, ‘Who are you?’

  Geoff searched his mind for lies. Terror shut down his imagination. The man with the rifle had shoulder-length brown hair and a goatee beard. He also had a nasty twitch in one eye.

  Fat Man said, ‘Shoot him.’

  Geoff’s insides turned to dust. ‘No. Please don’t—’

  ‘Shoot him, Tweezer.’

  ‘Is that wise, Father?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What if he’s a cop?’

  Fat Man hesitated for a moment, and then said, ‘He’s an agent of the Devil. Shoot him.’

  And so Tweezer did. The bullet ripped through Geoff’s left shoulder. He felt a roar of intense burning pain. His legs buckled. The tree seemed to rock back and forth as if caught in a strong wind.

  ‘Shoot him again.’

  This time the bullet tore a hole in his right knee. He lost his tenuous grip on the tree and tumbled head first to the ground. He instinctively put his hands out to soften the blow. Both wrists snapped on impact. His right shoulder dislocated. He screamed as the pain sent shock waves through his body. Something cracked in his spine. Instant numbness rolled down his legs and into both feet.

  ‘Is he dead, Father?’

  A few moments silence, broken only by a bird singing its song – perhaps of death – high in the tree. Sunlight burned his eyes. Two blurred shapes above him. The rifle pointing at him.

  ‘He lives,’ Fat Man said. ‘Satan’s own defies mortality.’

  ‘Shall I finish him?’

  ‘Not yet. We need to find out who he is. Where he’s from. Fetch Bubba. Get him to take our guest down into the Revelation Room.’

  Tweezer was about to head off when Fat Man stopped him. ‘Haven’t you forgotten something?’

  ‘No, Father. You asked—’

  ‘You think it wise to leave me unarmed?’

  A nervous laugh. Tweezer handed over the gun. ‘Sorry, Father.’

  ‘And be quick. We don’t know who else might be lurking about. Get word to Marcus on the tower and tell him to be vigilant. Any sign of the police, and we go into lockdown.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  Fat Man nudged Geoff’s side with the end of the rifle. ‘What brings you to Penghilly’s Farm?’

  Geoff opened his mouth and issued a gurgle. The sun scorched his face. ‘My… back… is… broken….’

  ‘How unfortunate. Perhaps it will stop you scaling trees in future and spying on innocent people.’

  ‘I…can’t…feel…my…legs….’

  ‘That speaks more of demonic possession than injury. You don’t fool me with your pitying sounds. My eyes see deeper than the colour of cowardice.’

  A huge shadow rolled across the ground. It glided over Geoff, and took him away to a beautiful, dark, painless place.

  Awake again. Being carried down concrete steps on the shoulders of a tall thin man. Through a room with bright lights, and what looked like hundreds of cannabis plants. Perhaps a hallucination?

  Tweezer unlocked a door at the end of the room. ‘Put him on the floor by the wall, Bubba.’

  Bubba deposited Geoff on the dusty concrete floor.

  ‘Sit him up, facing the wall.’

  Bubba did. Geoff flopped forward, head almost resting in his lap.

  ‘You can go now, Bubba.’

  The big man walked from the room without a single word or a backward glance.

  Tweezer leaned the rifle up against the wall. ‘If you want my advice, you’ll answer Father Ebb’s questions honestly.’

  Or what? You’ll hurt me?

  Ebb appeared a few minutes later. ‘All quiet?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘Have you taken leave of your senses, Tweezer?’

  ‘No, Father.’

  ‘Then please explain why the prisoner is being attended to without a rifle?’

  Tweezer scurried to the wall and retrieved the weapon. ‘Sorry, Father.’

  ‘Slackness costs lives.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘I shall pray for you, Tweezer. Pray that you and your senses shall one day be reunited.’

  Tweezer shuffled awkwardly. ‘Yes, Father,’

  Ebb turned his attention to Geoff. ‘Who are you?’

  Geoff didn’t answer. He prayed that death would come quickly.

  Ebb walked to one side of him and held a mobile phone in front of his face. ‘This yours?’

  Geoff bit down on his lip hard enough to draw blood.

  Ebb snatched the phone away. ‘Must be. It was in your pocket. Along with a Ford Fiesta car key and a front door key.’

  Then why are you asking?

  ‘Pay-as-you-go phone. No contacts. No details. No wallet. No ID. What does that tell you Tweezer?’

  ‘Tells m
e he’s up to something.’

  ‘We need to search the tree. See if he’s secreted anything up there.’

  ‘Shall I go now, Father?’

  ‘Yes. And tell Sister Alice I require her presence down in the Revelation Room.’

  ‘As you wish, Father.’

  Ebb paced up and down. ‘They say God moves in mysterious ways, but Satan makes the Lord look positively straightforward, doesn’t he?’

  ‘If… you… say… so….’

  ‘Do you know who I am?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What is your business here?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  A lengthy silence. And then Ebb said, ‘Pleading ignorance will get you nowhere. I’ve got all the time in the world, Mr Tree Man.’

  Geoff begged his mind to help; it was otherwise engaged, dealing with the pain tearing through his upper body.

  Footsteps walked across the room. And then a woman’s voice. ‘Who is he, Father?’

  ‘Satan’s very own, Sister Alice. Satan’s very own.’

  ‘What does he want?’

  ‘What Satan always wants. To disrupt God’s plan. To interrupt His work.’

  ‘What are we going to do with him?’

  ‘Find out the true nature of his mission, Sister. Find out who sent him.’

  ‘Maybe we should just kill him.’

  ‘Not until I know who he is.’

  ‘Brother Tweezer said he was up a tree overlooking the courtyard.’

  ‘Indeed. Tweezer’s searching the tree as we speak. The Imposter had a camera. Taking pictures of the farm.’

  ‘Why would Satan want pictures?’

  ‘That’s for the Imposter to tell.’

  ‘What if he won’t talk?’

  ‘He will.’

  The confidence of this last statement sent a chill through Geoff’s body.

  ‘What if he dies before we have the information, Father?’

  ‘God won’t allow that.’

  ‘If you’re sure, Father.’

  ‘Are you questioning my wisdom, Sister Alice?’

  ‘No, Father. It’s just… well… the unpredictability of the mortal body.’

  ‘I’m well aware of the fallibility of the human body. But this one has a demon lurking within it.’

  ‘Is it wise to do battle with a demon, Father?’

  ‘Is it wise to turn a blind eye?’

  ‘No, Father.’

  ‘Anyway, I didn’t summon you here to question the validity of my purpose. I want you to shave the Imposter of all its facial hair.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘So as we can search for the mark of the beast.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘And see if you can stop the bleeding.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘He can have some water. Enough to nourish him. Just in case….’

  ‘As you wish, Father.’

  ‘Make sure he remains facing the wall. I don’t want him to be stimulated in any way.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Right. I think we’re finished here for now. When you come back to tend to him, do not engage in conversation with him. Suppress any feelings of pity. This is a wild animal. Remain vigilant at all times.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Father. I won’t let my guard slip for a second.’

  Geoff heard them leave the room. The door close. The key turn in the lock. He wanted to scream. Bang his head against the wall. Die before Ebb had the chance to torture him. He thought about home. His wife, Anne, and his only son, Ben. How they would cope if he died.

  Not If. When.

  He’d parked Ben’s car about a mile away from the farm on a housing estate. An old yellow Fiesta. Not as noticeable as his own BMW. Far better for trailing cult members.

  Fat lot of good that’s done you.

  He forced himself to sit up. He looked at his useless legs. His torn trousers. The only blessing was he couldn’t feel a thing below his waist. Not even the piss that stained his crotch. His breath came in ragged gasps. His heart galloped across his chest. One final glimmer of hope. A watch phone. A freebie from the owner of A1 Security. Geoff thought it more of a gimmick than practical, and the battery life was minimal, but it was all he had.

  He held his right arm in front of his face. His shoulder shook with the exertion of this simple movement. Tears blurred his vision. Two watch faces. Two straps. He squeezed his eyes shut, wiped them with the back of his hand, looked again. One watch. He pressed a button on the side of the screen and turned it on. Low battery. One bar. He brought up a menu, selected Ben’s number and hit dial.

  He didn’t even know if he would stay conscious long enough to make this call.

  2

  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 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 at Ben and rolled his eyes.

  Ben raised a 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 customary tweed jacket, brown corduroy trousers and trilby hat. A tall man with size thirteen feet and arthritic hands, Ben thought Tom looked as if he was some kind of crude 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 back first, then I’ll be right with you.’

  ‘Get yourself a drink, lad. You look frazzled,’

  Ben walked through an open doorway into a back room which served as both a restroom and refreshment hub. He put the bag 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.’

  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. ‘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 all right if you don’t stop moaning.’

  ‘Aw, let him out, poor thing.’

  Ben unzipped the bag to reveal Old Joe, a ventriloquist dummy which he used to entertain the kids with before the B
ible readings. Old Joe only had one eye. It stared permanently to the left courtesy of a broken mechanism. His brown serge suit had fallen victim to moth attacks, but he was a tramp, and tramps didn’t have their suits dry cleaned, did they?

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

  ‘Okay, for someone zipped up in a body bag.’

  ‘You look very handsome.’

  ‘That’s the kinda girl I like.’

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

  ‘Don’t say that. You’ll make his head swell.’

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

  Maddie faced Ben. ‘You’re so good with him. He really sounds like he’s talking.’

  ‘I am talking,’ Old Joe said.

  Maddie smiled. ‘I can’t even see your lips moving.’

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

  Ben wagged a finger. ‘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.’

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

  ‘See if I care.’

  Ben zipped up the bag.

  ‘Hey. Come on. I was kidding.’

  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?’ Old Joe asked. ‘You need to buy me a swimming costume.’

  ‘I need to buy you a gag.’

  ‘I love him,’ Maddie said.

  ‘Marry me,’ Old Joe pleaded.

  ‘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?’