by Sam Christer
‘Oh, yeah, I know who you mean.’
She knows he doesn’t but ploughs on. ‘Google him, and there’s background on him in here, as well as the suicide.’ She opens the file and points out a list of contact numbers. ‘This is the mobile number of Gideon Chase, Nathaniel’s son. He has asked to see the body. Would you mind making sure he’s dealt with sympathetically?’ She wonders if Jimmy’s repertoire stretches that far.
‘Consider it done.’ He smiles broadly and widens his eyes. It’s a little trick he’s picked up. A dead certain way of letting her know that’s he is more than just willing to do his duty at work.
She can’t believe he’s hitting on her. ‘What are you waiting for, Jimmy?’ She tilts her head. Much as she might study a strange insect that’s appeared from beneath a rock. ‘Apparently, I only have the pleasure of your company for two days, so now is a really good time to get started.’
He takes the hint, walks away with a backhanded wave. ‘Later, boss.’
Megan unclenches her fists. She has to learn to relax. Not suffering fools is one thing, wanting to crack them in the nose is another. She makes black tea in the small kitchen area off the main office and comes back to her desk just in time to catch the phone ringing. She spills some of the hot drink on the paperwork in the rush to grab it. ‘DI Baker. Damn.’
There’s a hesitation on the line before the caller answers. ‘This is PC Rob Featherby from Shaftesbury. My sergeant said I should call.’
‘Sorry, Rob, I just spilled something. Give me a sec.’ She shifts the paperwork away from the spreading dark puddle and blots it with tissues from her bag. ‘Back with you. Apologies again, what were you saying?’
‘Myself and PC Jones turned out to that burglary over in Tollard. I had the control room call you – they did, didn’t they?’
‘They did. Many thanks. How’s your colleague?’
‘He’s fine. Lost his voice for a bit. Which was no bad thing.’
She laughs. Like most coppers, black humour is what keeps her sane. ‘I just read your report. Very thorough. If we ever get this on Crimewatch, they should book you.’
He’s flattered. ‘Thanks. I try to remember as much as possible.’
‘How can I help?’
‘Are you still interested in the case? The break-in I mean, I know you’re investigating the suicide.’
‘What have you got?’
‘Well, the scenes of crimes mob lifted some good sets of footprints from the lawn and soil beds this morning and they match prints inside the house.’
‘Excellent.’ Her optimism gets the better of her. ‘Have you got a suspect?’
He laughs. ‘We wish. It gets better though. The offender left behind a canvas bag, a sort of break-in kit. It’s filled with tools.’
‘Rob, I’m about forty miles from the Chase estate. Do you think you could meet me over there in, say, two hours’ time? I’d really like you to walk me through where things were found, what you think happened.’
‘I’ll have to check with my sergeant but I don’t see why not. If there’s a problem, I’ll call you back. Okay?’
‘Fine. Thanks.’ She hangs up. She’s glad of the chance to see Gideon Chase again – the opportunity to find out why he’s lying.
32
HYDE PARK, LONDON
The hour is up. Caitlyn is dressed and at the door ready to leave.
She got everything she wanted. The guy is cute. Obedient. A pretty good lay. Granted, he could learn to be a bit more patient but that’s a lesson all men could do with attending a few boot camps on.
Jake hasn’t bothered getting dressed. He’s slung on a white towelling robe. He’ll step in the shower when she’s gone. Or maybe he’ll keep the smell of her on him all day. He approaches her, his eyes still hungry. ‘Do I get a kiss goodbye?’ He pops an ecstasy tablet on to the tip of his tongue.
She steps forward and smooches it off him, a reward for his attentiveness. She swallows and steps back a pace. ‘If only they made Es that tasted like Ben & Jerry’s.’
‘Everyone would be high all the time.’
‘Exactly.’
‘So you liked the Cherry—’
She interrupts. ‘What wasn’t there to like. You did well.’
He smiles. ‘And when might I get the chance to do well again?’
‘Don’t get clingy. I can’t do clingy.’
He looks taken aback.
‘Same time, same place, next week. You book. Get everything the same again, only I’ll pay. Okay?’
Now he feels cheap. ‘That’s not necessary. What about a more regular date? A movie, a club, dinner. You do that kind of shit, don’t you?’
She breaks up laughing. ‘Man, you’ve no idea the hell my father would put you through before you even got to buy me coffee.’
He goes silent on her.
She buttons her coat. ‘Look, I have to go. Same time next week?’
He nods.
‘For what it’s worth, I like you. Let’s see how next week goes. Then we can talk about whether we risk the wrath of Daddy for the sake of dinner or a cup of coffee.’
He has nice crinkly lines in the corner of his eyes and a really friendly smile. She gives in to a moment of softness and puts her hands around the back of his neck, kisses him in a way she hasn’t kissed another man. Relaxed. Non-urgent, non-demanding. Intimate.
It shocks her. ‘I have to go.’
Jake barely has time to open his eyes before she’s clicked open the door and is down the corridor. ‘Hey!’
She turns her head.
‘I’m going to surprise you.’ He makes a pretend phone out of his thumb and little finger and holds it to his right ear. ‘Listen for your mobile. Be ready for my message.’
33
Megan draws her Ford alongside the patrol car parked outside the gates of the Chase estate and winds down the passenger window. ‘I guess you’re Rob Featherby?’
A good looking dark-haired man in his early twenties smiles across at her. ‘I am. I just arrived myself. Shall we drive on up?’
She gestures towards the house. ‘Lead the way.’
The PC gives her a playful look, starts the engine and heads off.
They park behind an Audi in the drive and step out into warm sunshine. Featherby brings a thick envelope with him packed with photographs of evidence recovered from the scene.
Megan presses the buzzer and raps the heavy doorknocker for good measure. After close to a minute, she looks towards the A4. ‘He must be in, that’s his vehicle.’
The PC gives the bell another long ring. As he takes his finger off the button, the door opens. Gideon Chase holds it and peers through a foot-wide gap. He looks pale, shaken.
‘Sorry to have to trouble you,’ Megan says. ‘We need to ask a few more questions.’
Gideon can’t face it. ‘It’s not convenient.’ He starts to shut the door.
She puts her foot against it. ‘This is PC Featherby. You have met, though you don’t remember it. He dragged you out of the fire the other night.’
The revelation pulls Gideon up short. He marshals his manners and extends a hand. ‘Thank you. I’m most grateful.’ He glances at her and reluctantly opens the door wide. ‘Best go right through to the back. The kitchen’s the only place I’ve got to know so far.’
They head in as he closes the door. His head is screaming from decoding several diaries and he really doesn’t want them here.
‘Big kitchen!’ Megan shouts, trying to alter the mood. She runs a hand over an old Aga. The only thing missing is femininity. There are no curtains, vases, casserole pots or stacks of spices. It’s been reduced to the worst thing she can think of – functional masculinity.
Gideon joins them. ‘I’m a little embarrassed.’ He looks towards Featherby. ‘You should at least be able to offer the man who saved your life a cup of tea or coffee but I’m afraid there’s no milk. I can do black, if that’s any good?’
‘I’m okay, thanks,’ says
the PC.
‘I’m fine as well,’ Megan adds.
Gideon folds his arms defensively. He leans against the cupboards and tries to look bright. ‘So how can I help you?’
She notices his red eyes and presumes stress is starting to take its toll. ‘Forensics from Rob’s station found quite a bit of evidence in relation to the break-in. I’ve asked him to walk me through it, so I can best assemble a profile of the offender. Is it okay with you if we do that?’
He looks helpless. ‘Of course. What do you want me to do?’
‘Nothing.’ She tries to be gentle. ‘We just need access to the study, that side of the house and the gardens. Do we have your permission to do that?’
He’d rather they didn’t but doesn’t feel like he can object. ‘Sure. I’m just sorting some of my father’s things upstairs; please shout if you need me.’
She nods. ‘Thanks. We will.’
He wanders off, feeling like he’s being banished.
Featherby leads the way to the burned-out study. Megan looks at the blackened walls, ceiling and floor. ‘What a mess.’ The place stinks of the fire. ‘You say the source of the blaze was around the curtains and desk?’
He circles a hand around a coal-black spot on the floor. ‘Right about here. That’s what the chief fire investigator said.’
She makes mental notes. The offender did this in the study, not the lounge. It was premeditated. He was searching for something and either found it and burned it, or ran out of time. If the latter, he wanted to make sure no one else discovered what he couldn’t. ‘Any accelerant used? Any petrol or oil from the kitchen?’
Featherby shakes his head. ‘Not that I was told of.’
She steps into the corridor and shouts up the stairs. ‘Gideon! Do you have a minute?’
The archaeologist hangs his head over the banister.
‘Was your father a smoker?’
He thinks for a second. ‘No. I don’t think so. From what I can remember he was strongly against.’ He gives a resigned look. ‘It’s possible he started in the last few years, after I lost touch, but I think that’s unlikely. Anything else?’
She smiles up at him. ‘No, not for now.’
He disappears and she returns to the study. The constable looks at her for an explanation. She takes time out to educate him. ‘The offender is a smoker. He used his own lighter, a disposable BIC. The son said he saw one in the intruder’s hand before he accosted him in here. This person’s not an arsonist, has never committed arson before. Had he been, he’d have used an accelerant. He’s also unlikely to have a criminal record but given the way he disabled your partner, he may well be ex-services.’
Featherby is fascinated. ‘How can you be sure?’
‘I can’t. That’s why I said not likely. Use your common sense though. This is what in profiling is called a mixed scene – some of the job was highly professional and some total bungle. You go breaking the law and you need an element of luck to keep things as you planned, otherwise you’re off script and then anything goes. This offender didn’t get any good luck. The householder came back while he was torching the place, caught him unawares, called the cops and almost trapped him in a burning room. At that point the guy acted off script and was thinking only about survival and escape, hence why he disabled but didn’t kill PC Jones and forgot the tool bag.’
Featherby’s seen enough burglaries and car break-ins to know she’s making sense.
Megan’s not finished. ‘Arson wasn’t the original intention. It was an afterthought. He was looking for something, something that presumably he didn’t find.’
‘So why set the fire?’
She thinks. ‘So no one else could find it. Meaning whatever it is, threatens him or whoever he’s working with.’
Featherby nods towards the hall and staircase. ‘Did he give you a description?’
She screws up her face. ‘Don’t even go there. He couldn’t remember a thing about the way the man looked.’
‘Pity.’
‘Forget it for now. Concentrate on the offender. As well as not having a criminal record, he’s not too bright. But he is bold. It takes balls to break into a house, especially one where someone’s just died. So let’s presume our individual is confident, strong and relatively mature. I guess he’s thirty to forty-five years old, works doing some kind of physical labour. Given that only about six per cent of Wiltshire is ethnically diverse, we can assume he’s white.’
The PC puts it together. ‘White male, manual worker, thirty to forty-five, smoker, no criminal record. That’s amazing, given that you’re just looking at a burned-out room.’
She almost starts explaining that the room is the last thing she’s looking at. What she’s really studying is the invisible clues that all offenders leave about their behaviour.
‘What do you think is the guy’s connection to the deceased?’
She takes a beat. ‘Smart question. And if we crack it, we solve all the mysteries of this case.’
‘But there is a connection, right?’
‘At least one. Probably several.’
He looks confused.
Megan explains. ‘The intruder may have professional links to the deceased. He might be a gardener, window cleaner, car mechanic. He probably knew the professor because he regularly did jobs for him or delivered to his house. That would also make him more confident about coming up here and breaking in. But I think he may also have known Nathaniel Chase because he was mixed up in whatever the old man was.’
‘I don’t get it.’
She expands. ‘Chase had a lot of money. Too much for a man like him. He was dirty, I’m sure of it. The only question is, what kind of dirt?’
Sitting at the top of the stairs, Gideon feels like someone’s stabbed a pin in his heart. But deep down he knows she’s right. His father was involved in something bad. Bad enough to keep secret.
34
Just before midnight they come for him.
They move quickly and don’t speak. There’s no going back now. Lee Johns will soon be known only as Lacerta. But the change of name is going to be painful. He’s been blindfolded and driven for miles in preparation. He’s about to be initiated.
He has earned the right to know of the Sanctuary’s existence but it will be some time before he is entrusted with its location. The strong hands of unseen men lead him through the Descending Passage and into an antechamber. Still blindfolded, he is stripped and washed, led naked to the Great Room. It is vast. Cavernous. More than a hundred square metres. So high, the ceiling is invisible, a black shroud somewhere up above.
The smell of hundreds of burning candles fills the cool air. Fear and nakedness heighten his senses. The stone slabs beneath his feet feel as hard and cold as ice.
The Henge Master raises a hammer, a symbol of the craft of the ancients who created the resting place of the Sacreds and the Sanctuary. He looks across the congregation and lets it fall. A gigantic marble block is pushed across the single entrance and seals the chamber.
‘Let the eyes of the child be opened.’
The blindfold is removed. The initiation has begun.
Lee’s heart pounds. He is in an entirely circular room. Through blinking eyes he sees in front of him a life-size replica of Stonehenge. It is complete. As perfect as it was on the day it was finished. At the centre is a cloaked and hooded figure, his face covered in shade and unrecognisable.
The Henge Master speaks: ‘Behold the embodiment of the Sacreds. The divinities rested here centuries ago, when our forefathers, the founding Followers, built this cosmic circle and this Sanctuary. In here, you are in their presence. Out of respect, once initiated, you will ensure your head is always covered and your eyes always lowered. Do you understand?’
He knows how to respond. ‘Yes, Master.’
‘You are brought before us because you are deemed fit by members of our Craft to become a lifelong Follower. Is that your will?’
‘Yes, Master.’
‘And are you ready to pledge your life, your soul and your loyalty to the Sacreds and to those who protect them?’
‘Yes, Master.’
‘The Sacreds renew us only as long as we renew them. We honour them with our flesh and blood and in return they protect and renew our flesh and blood. Do you pledge your flesh and blood to their immortal holiness?’
‘Yes, Master.’
From behind him, incense begins to burn inside handheld copper thuribles swung on heavy chains. The air fills with the smells of sweet spices, onycha and galbanum. The Henge Master spreads his arms wide. ‘Bring he who wishes to Follow to the Slaughter Stone.’
Lee Johns is led through the circle to the stone. He feels an urge to look at those around him. Sean warned that he must not do this, must not look into the face of any of those inside the Great Room, especially that of the Master.
A voice in his ear tells him to kneel. The floor is bone hard. Hands force him flat. Four Followers fasten his ankles and wrists, spread-eagling him across the mottled Slaughter Stone. The Henge Master moves close, followed by five incense swingers, all members of the Inner Circle. ‘Do you believe in the power of the Sacreds and all who follow them?’
‘Yes, Master.’
‘Do you trust unquestionably and unhesitatingly in their power to protect, to sustain and to heal?’
‘Yes, Master.’
‘Do you dedicate your life to their service?’
‘Yes, Master.’
‘And do you swear upon your life and the lives of all members of your family and those you hold dear never to speak of the Craft outside of your brotherhood unless given permission to do so?’
‘Yes, Master.’
The incense burners swing their thuribles in a series of circles over his tethered limbs and torso, then step away. The Henge Master holds a long dark blade fashioned from razor-sharp stone cut from the first trilithon of the henge. ‘I draw this human blood, flesh and bone in the hope that you will accept him as one of your servants and will afford him your protection and blessings. Sacred Gods, I humbly beg you to find a space in your affections for our brother.’ He moves to the Slaughter Stone and slashes cuts from wrist to shoulder, from ankle to top of the leg, and from neck to the base of the spine.
