The Devil's Moon

by Peter Guttridge

  ‘I assume you’re addressing me rather than your daughter in such an aggressive way,’ he said quietly, his voice almost lost in the blare of a car horn as the lights changed and Watts’ car blocked the way. ‘But whatever I’m doing has nothing at all to do with you.’

  Watts looked at his daughter. ‘What are you doing with this charlatan?’ he said, aware even as he said it that this was absolutely the wrong way to go.

  His daughter, flushed with embarrassment, looked beyond Watts at the impatient driver honking his horn. ‘It’s none of your business,’ she said.

  He took a step forward. His daughter stepped in front of Vicar Dave.

  ‘You’re making yourself ridiculous, Father.’ There was scorn in her voice. ‘It’s a bit late to show parental concern for me.’

  ‘You told me you were married to Christ,’ he said.

  ‘Which is why you are being ridiculous,’ she said. She glanced at Vicar Dave. ‘Dave respects the sanctity of that marriage.’

  Watts looked at the vicar, who held his gaze. ‘Yeah, right.’

  There was a renewed blast of a horn and an inchoate shout as the car behind Watts’ veered round it to get through the lights. Other cars followed. More hoots and jeering calls.

  Watts pointed at Vicar Dave. ‘Your card is marked, Mister.’

  Vicar Dave shrugged.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Watts’ daughter said. She took a couple of steps away from Watts and Vicar Dave. She looked at her father with something like disgust, something like pity. ‘Goodbye, Father.’

  Fuck it. Watts had wanted to hit the vicar the first time he saw him. He’d fucked this up with his daughter. He might at least get something out of it. He took a swing at Vicar Dave’s enticing face.

  Watts would have laughed if it hadn’t been so damned pathetic. Vicar Dave was handy, handy enough to dodge Watts’ fist and use the momentum to up-end the former chief constable.

  Watts heard everything from his pockets clatter to the floor a second before he did. At least, he thought afterwards, he remembered how to hit the ground without breaking anything.

  His daughter looked at him, unconsciously tossing her hair. Vicar Dave walked off with a shake of his head. His daughter came over and helped him to his feet. She picked up some things and handed them to him.

  More drivers blared their horns at him as they navigated round his car. She shook her head and said in a tiny voice, ‘Goodbye, Dad.’

  He nodded at her then turned and went back to his car. The light was on green. She was still standing on the pavement as he drove off. She called something and gestured but, feeling foolish and angry and pitiful, he drove on.

  There had been an abrupt change in Cropper, as if a switch had been flipped. He stretched his hands out and pointed his fingers at Gilchrist.

  ‘When God brought me to town the Devil came with me.’

  Gilchrist looked into his fierce eyes. To use a technical term, the guy was definitely a nut-job.

  ‘Let me guess,’ she said. ‘You can’t have one without the other.’

  Cropper burned a look into the wall and tilted his head. ‘I’m not so sure. When I look in the mirror, I don’t see God at all. All I see is the Devil.’

  ‘You believe you’re the Devil?’

  ‘I believe the Devil is within me and works through me.’

  ‘Can’t you cast him out of you as you cast him out of others?’

  Cropper looked at her intently. ‘Why would I want to? Besides, those I cast out of others are the Devil’s minions.’

  ‘Not the Big Man himself?’ Donaldson said.

  ‘The Devil is no mere man, big or otherwise.’

  ‘Well,’ said Donaldson, ‘except that, according to you, he’s inhabiting your body and you’re a mere man.’

  Cropper rolled his shoulders.

  ‘How’s he look?’ Gilchrist said. ‘The Devil.’

  Cropper grimaced. ‘Like me.’

  ‘No horns, yellow eyes, sulphur coming out of his nostrils – none of that stuff?’

  ‘Don’t be absurd,’ he said, and indicated his plastic hand restrainers. ‘If I wished to break these shackles, I could do so.’

  ‘That I’d like to see,’ Donaldson said. ‘Even if I had to pay for the cost of replacement. Try it, why don’t you? Demonstrate to us that you really are possessed by the Devil.’

  Cropper gave a secretive smile.‘The Devil is above party games.’

  ‘How’s he going to feel about being under arrest?’ Donaldson said. ‘You and him both.’

  Cropper laughed then, almost good-naturedly. ‘You amuse me. You think you have the Devil by the tail? If you had captured the Devil you would wish you had not done so.’

  ‘What about God?’ Gilchrist said, though she wasn’t sure why.

  ‘God?’

  Cropper suddenly fisted one hand and hit himself, hard, against the side of his head, his other hand flapping. ‘God is the Alien. The Abyss. The Non-Existent.’

  Gilchrist shuddered.

  ‘What does that make the Devil?’ Donaldson said.

  Cropper massaged his temple with meaty fingers. ‘Why, Rex Mundi, of course.’

  ‘The Ruler of the World,’ Heap said.

  Cropper’s sleeve had rolled up above his bicep. Heap pointed at the patch on Cropper’s arm. ‘Are you by any chance bipolar, Mr Cropper?’

  THIRTY-ONE

  Nicola Travis’s garden was lit with white Christmas lights strung across the trees and leading round the side of the house. Watts parked behind the deux chevaux that had been there before. A clapped-out old thing, it seemed familiar but perhaps that was only because it was typical Lewes.

  Carrying the ice box and purse, he followed the trail of lights. In the garden there were tall shrubs with hanging, trumpet-shaped flowers.

  Nicola Travis was waiting for him at a metal table. She had changed into jeans and a T-shirt. There was a teapot and two mugs on the table. He put the ice box on the floor beside the table and handed her the purse. He gestured round the garden.

  ‘Exotic flowers.’

  ‘Angel trumpets mostly. Mixed with their cousins, the thorn apple. Datura stramonium.’

  ‘Lovely,’ he said.

  ‘They are. My favourite plants and flowers only bloom cloaked in darkness.’

  Watts didn’t know what to say to that.

  ‘Datura is associated with Saturn and Venus. Saturn is of the night. Venus? I’m guessing because of these big, lush, flowers – like a woman’s sex. Georgia O’Keefe painted the blossoms of the Sacred Datura, you know. But Venus has her darkness too. Like many beautiful things, all parts of these plants are poisonous.’

  Travis was rooting in her bag.

  ‘I thought O’Keefe painted calla lilies,’ Watts said.

  ‘She painted those too. Where’s my phone?’

  Watts smiled. ‘Sorry – put it in my pocket for safe-keeping.’ He put his mug down on the table and felt in his jacket pockets.

  ‘I hope you haven’t been peeking,’ Travis said.

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ he said, switching to his inside pockets. He pulled out an iPhone and she reached for it. He pressed the indent to illuminate the screen. ‘No, that’s mine,’ he said. He rummaged through all his pockets whilst the smile slipped off her face.

  ‘Listen, I’m really sorry,’ he said. ‘I took a tumble earlier and it must have fallen out of my pocket.’

  ‘My phone fell out of your pocket?’

  ‘At Five Dials.’

  ‘What was it doing in your pocket?’

  ‘I – I don’t really know. When I found it I just dropped it in there for safe-keeping.’

  ‘Safe-keeping.’ Travis’s voice was chilly.

  Watts remembered his daughter calling after him and waving. He’d assumed she was either cursing or forgiving him – those were the two options for Christians, weren’t they? But now he wondered whether she had found the phone in the gutter and had been trying to bring him back.
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br />   ‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘I think my daughter might have it.’

  ‘Your daughter? Why on earth would she have it?’ There was ice now in Travis’s voice.

  ‘She was there when I took a tumble,’ Watts said. ‘I’ll text her.’

  Under Travis’s intense scrutiny he clumsily tapped out a message and sent it off.

  ‘Why don’t you try phoning her too?’ Travis said.

  Watts dialled his daughter. It went straight to voicemail. He left a message then shrugged. ‘I’m sure your phone is safe.’

  Watts could almost see the immense effort of will it took for Travis to smile and nod.

  ‘Well,’ she said, expelling air. ‘Why don’t we sit out here until she gets back to you?’ She indicated the teapot. ‘I’ve made a kind of mulled wine.’

  They sat, she poured and handed him one of the mugs. She chinked hers with his. He took a sip of a lukewarm, heavily spiced drink.

  ‘That tastes exotic.’

  ‘Just stuff from the garden.’

  ‘Not the toxic stuff, I hope,’ he said.

  She ignored his remark but she seemed to relax. Indeed, she recovered some of her earlier vivacity as she gabbled.

  ‘I like sitting out here after dark, watching my flowers come to life. Datura is so potent. The hawk moth feeds off it and takes its poison to keep it safe from predators. The plants are not often used for recreational drug use but sometimes – you can go deep, deep inside yourself, into a visionary state.’

  ‘Nicola – you sound as if you’ve tried it.’

  She ignored him again, speeding up, her eyes moving rapidly from side to side.

  ‘Some people feel like an alien or that they are dissolving – the kind of oneness that Buddhists seek, I imagine. Other people suffer terrible anxiety because they are frightened they are going to lose control and that they will go insane – the very things the anxiety, rather than the datura, causes.

  ‘Waking dreams, hallucinations of objects and beings that aren’t there. A common belief is that you have turned into a bird. Inexperienced users might believe they can fly from the highest rocks. They come down to earth pretty promptly, although they may die still believing they are flying. Even so, it used to be an ingredient in flying ointments – you know, witches on their broomsticks?’

  Watts watched her face and her expressive, waving hands in fascination. He shifted in his seat, wondering if drug use was what made Nicola manic, hoping his daughter would text soon.

  Cropper was taken to a holding cell and Gilchrist led Donaldson and Heap back into the crime room. She stifled a yawn as she said to Heap: ‘What’s with the bipolar question?’

  ‘I discovered new medical uses for scopolamine. Most relevant: it’s used for colon and intestinal problems.’

  ‘Like cancer?’ Gilchrist murmured.

  ‘For those who don’t believe in conventional medicine,’ Heap said. ‘Formerly it was used to control heroin and cocaine withdrawal symptoms and to combat depression. And it’s still used on patches to control bipolar disorders.’

  ‘Bipolar – we’re back to two things not one – there is a word for that, isn’t there?’

  ‘Duality, ma’am.’

  ‘Always to be relied on, Bellamy.’

  ‘Didn’t you say you had important information for us, Heap?’ Donaldson said tetchily.

  ‘Yes, sir. Two things.’

  ‘Take your time,’ Donaldson said.

  ‘Sir – do you know the full name of the Knights Templar?’

  ‘That would be a no, Heap. I live in the modern world.’

  ‘Sir. It’s the Poor Knights of the Temple of Solomon. A conspiracy theory type would have a field day. Poor Knights of the Temple of Solomon ran Saddlescombe, on the outskirts of Brighton, hundreds of years ago. A copy of the Key of Solomon – obviously linked to the Temple of Solomon – resides in and is stolen from the Jubilee Library in Brighton.’

  ‘What’s your point, Constable?’ Donaldson said. ‘Or are you auditioning for the History Channel?’

  ‘I took a call from someone called Allcock.’

  ‘From the Jubilee’s rare books collection?’ Gilchrist said. ‘What did he have to say?’

  ‘He said he was mistaken about the provenance of the Key that was stolen from the library.’

  Donaldson sighed. ‘Provenance . . .’

  Gilchrist was also impatient: ‘It wasn’t centuries old? So what?’

  ‘Not that, ma’am. He said it wasn’t part of the George Long collection. He checked. It was only donated in 1947.’

  Gilchrist frowned. ‘I don’t see . . .’

  ‘It had belonged to Aleister Crowley.’

  Gilchrist thought for a moment. ‘Who died that year. Was he the donor?’

  Heap shook his head.

  ‘Jesus, Heap,’ Donaldson said impatiently.

  ‘The donor puzzled Allcock,’ Heap said.

  ‘It wasn’t Gluckstein, was it?’ Gilchrist said.

  Heap laughed. ‘That would have been good. I hadn’t thought of that. But not her. It was Ian Fleming.’

  ‘The James Bond bloke?’ Donaldson said.

  Heap nodded.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘As you rightly say, ma’am.’

  ‘He was friends with Victor Tempest – the father of Bob Watts. We need to call him. I need to call him.’

  ‘With respect, ma’am, we have more immediate issues,’ Donaldson said. ‘What was the second thing, Heap? Was it to do with what’s happening now?’

  ‘I’ve traced Lesley Henderson.’

  ‘His present whereabouts?’ Donaldson said.

  ‘His or her past.’

  Donaldson sighed. ‘I asked for something immediately relevant.’

  ‘If we assume she’s the person who went to see Andrew Callaghan she is our main suspect,’ Gilchrist said. ‘So any information is immediately relevant. What did you get, Bellamy?’

  ‘Yes, come on, teacher’s pet – spit it out,’ Donaldson said.

  Gilchrist gave Donaldson a hard look but said nothing. Heap flushed but ignored him.

  ‘He was registered as a male at birth. He has lived at Saddlescombe all his life, though for most of it in a cottage on the estate. His mother’s name is Avril Henderson. Avril Henderson is the wife of Colin Pearson, the writer on the occult.’

  Gilchrist jumped to her feet. ‘Let’s get going.’

  The phone on her desk rang. She snatched it up. ‘Desk sergeant here, ma’am. Young lady just come in with what she claims is evidence that she is willing to hand over only to you.’

  ‘OK – we’re coming down – I want a car and driver waiting at the front door, please.’

  ‘Ma’am.’

  They clattered down the stairs as the lifts in this building took forever to arrive. Gilchrist led the way into the foyer. A familiar blonde-haired girl was standing near the door, an intense-looking man with burning eyes sitting on the bench seat behind her.

  ‘You have something for me?’ she said to the girl.

  The man stood.

  ‘So,’ the girl said. ‘You’re the woman who broke my mother’s heart.’

  The Goat of Mendes returned at the edge of the night, alone on the rim of the world, to salute the rise of a Devil’s Moon. The Goat stood in a circle of blazing candles on Newtimber Hill, looking out to the sea from which all came. The Goat of Mendes, shaggy head and curling horns above broad shoulders and naked human body, arms outstretched before it.

  Ten yards away a crumpled form lay in a wheelbarrow between the legs of the Wicker Man. Kindling was stacked against those legs. Someone was crouched over the kindling. A smell of petrol was in the air.

  THIRTY-TWO

  ‘And you would be who?’ Gilchrist said to the girl with the long blonde hair.

  ‘You mean whom,’ the girl said. ‘And I would be Catherine Watts, the daughter of Chief Constable Watts, the man whose marriage you wrecked when you had your sordid affair
with him.’

  Gilchrist flushed and clenched her jaw but was momentarily speechless. Heap stepped halfway between Gilchrist and Catherine Watts.

  ‘I believe you have some information for us, miss,’ he said.

  Catherine glared at Gilchrist. ‘I haven’t finished what I want to say,’ she said.

  ‘I’m afraid that whatever you want to say will have to wait,’ Heap said. ‘We’re in the middle of a murder inquiry which you would be wise not to impede.’

  Catherine flashed an angry look at him. ‘I’m hardly impeding it when I’ve brought in evidence,’ she said sharply.

  ‘You are if you don’t tell us what it is, Miss Watts,’ Heap said.

  Catherine looked back at Gilchrist then fixed her attention on Heap. ‘It’s a mobile phone,’ she said. ‘It has something horrible on it.’

  ‘Where did you get it?’

  Catherine looked at the intense man beside her as if for support. He nodded.

  ‘Who are you, sir?’ Heap said.

  ‘My parishioners call me Vicar Dave.’

  Heap and Gilchrist exchanged glances.

  ‘Go on, Miss Watts,’ Heap said.

  ‘It fell out of the pocket of my father, Bob Watts.’

  Gilchrist frowned. What was going on here?

  ‘And what disturbs you?’ Heap said.

  Catherine handed him the phone. ‘See for yourself. Look on the video.’

  Gilchrist and Donaldson pressed in close to Heap as he turned the phone lengthways and touched the video icon. Catherine Watts never took her eyes off Gilchrist.

  Gilchrist watched the video again with Heap in the back of the car heading for Saddlescombe. She had quickly ascertained, with some relief, that it wasn’t Bob Watts’ phone but she was puzzled about why he had it. Donaldson was back in the office finishing off the interview with Bob’s daughter and tracing the owner of this phone.

  The video was filmed in low light in Callaghan’s flat. The camera panned across the wall with the scriptures on it to Callaghan, sitting on a stand-up chair in shirt and trousers, trussed with tape. There was tape over his mouth. The camera moved in on his eyes, wide and fixed.

  A woman’s voice, indistinct. ‘You refuse to see what’s going on? Well, soon you will see.’