by Jenna Grey
There were still police meandering in and out of the place, and Blaine had to navigate his way around them, ignoring the less than friendly looks he was getting from some of them. Gaunt’s study was one of the largest rooms in the house, and the police had obviously given it a serious going over. There were objects strewn everywhere – drawers had been turned out and the contents scattered all over the floor. Terrific. If it didn’t have any bearing on their investigation, they’d just throw it around the place and never mind that they might be chucking away important evidence merely because they were too ignorant to understand what they were looking at. He knew that none of these men would have a clue what most of these objects could do. There were some artefacts there that even he had never come across before. He pulled on some gloves, picked up some of the scattered documents and scanned them. Some of these were old, too old and valuable historically to be thrown around the place like yesterday’s newspaper. These were in Old Norse by the looks of it; he could make out some of it, but he’d never really studied it seriously.
“I need to take some of this away – where can I log it?”
There was a shrug of total indifference, and Blaine felt his hackles rising. He made for the evidence bags without waiting for permission. There was an argument then, and he was told that anything taken away had to go through proper channels – they couldn’t have just anyone wandering in and taking evidence. He flashed his ID and pulled rank, and they eventually gave in, when he assured them he was only taking documents that couldn’t have any bearing on their investigations and they would be returned as soon as he’d examined them.
He made his way up to the girl’s room next, to find it in the same disarray. A bloody good job she had left, he wouldn’t want anyone to come back and face this mess. It was just as he’d expected it to be, a girlie den, with lots of teddies and flowers littering the place. There was no way this girl was into anything unhealthy. There was a photograph of the girl with an older woman, presumably her grandmother. Polly was wholesomely pretty, very pretty, girl next door, squeaky clean and clearly very fond of the gran. There was a ceiling-high bookshelf that covered most of one wall. He looked through the girl’s books: The Chronicles of Narnia, Lord of the Rings, The Princess Bride. If this girl was any more wholesome, she’d be up for Sainthood. He checked out the wardrobe – it too had been ransacked, although what they had expected to find there, he had no idea. Her clothes were all very flowery and sedate – Sunday best for every day of the week. He checked the back and floor of the wardrobe, tapping on it to see if there were any hidden compartments, but there was nothing. He hadn’t expected there to be. The chest of drawers held no secrets either, just a Winnie the Pooh address book with no addresses in it and a scented lace heart.
Then he moved towards the bed.
He stopped in front of it, sensing something, although for a moment he couldn’t work out what he was feeling or where it was coming from. He closed his eyes and tried to narrow it down, letting the sensation wash over him and trying to decide if it was malefic or benign. It was a strange sensation, non-specific, just a vague kind of energy that jangled his nerves.
He pulled out his flashlight and knelt down, peering under the bed. There was nothing there, not even dust, Pretty Polly was a good housekeeper. As he moved his hands closer to the floor the energy sizzled through him, and he started, smashing the back of his head into the bed frame. He invented a few new swear words and moved his hand closer to the carpet, watching the energy rippling over his skin. There was definitely something under the carpet, he was certain of it. He moved the bed out – it was easy enough; it was only a single bed. The carpet didn’t seem to be nailed down, so he eased up the corner and peeled it back. There, underneath, covering almost the entire width of the bed, was a circular sigil covered in Nordic Runes.
“Fuck.”
He knelt back on his heels and just stared at it. It looked as if it had been written in blood, but couldn’t have been, because the smell would have given it away. It was red paint then, but a deep red, the colour of old blood. He pulled his army knife and took a small scraping of it, putting it into an empty Tic Tac box – it was easier than facing the enemy downstairs and asking for an evidence bag. He could feel a slight tingle coming from his pocket – this was very potent magic.
He turned as he heard a noise behind him. Grimes was standing there, staring down at the sigil, a look close to horror on his florid face.
“How the hell did we miss that?” he asked.
“You weren’t looking for it,” Blaine said. “Mind you, neither was I, but it’s definitely not there for decoration.”
Grimes took a step back, probably an involuntary reaction on his part. Blaine stood and pulled out his phone to take some photos of it.
“What is it? Some kind of black magic thing?” Grimes asked.
“Not exactly. Those are Nordic runes. This is pagan, but not black magic. I’m not quite sure what it is, but I can find out. I recognise a couple of the runes, but I need to get some advice on this one.”
Grimes was looking decidedly green around the edges. This wasn’t just discomfort – it was fear.
“This place gives me the fucking creeps. I’ll be glad to get out of here. Do you think I need to do anything with this? I mean could it have anything to do with any crime I’d be interested in?”
Blaine couldn’t help but smile. Could this bone head be any more flat earthist?
“Probably not, but I’d photograph it and put it into evidence anyway, you never know.”
“So it’s nothing to do with what they were doing in the warehouse?”
“Perhaps, but you can’t actually prove that Gaunt and the rest of his Dennis Wheatley fan club were doing anything illegal, can you? For all you know the armed thugs had kidnapped Gaunt and his mates and were holding them hostage. The mercenaries were the ones with the illegal firearms and fake IDs. Gaunt could be the victim, not the perp.”
Grim just stared at him, as if his brain was refusing to process such unacceptable information.
“They must be guilty of something, even if it’s only trespass.”
Blaine struggled to keep a straight face.
“They weren’t even trespassing – one of the deceased owned the property, and they had every right to be there. There’s no law against conducting a religious ceremony on your own property.”
Grim looked as if he was trying to find the square root of a ten digit figure.
“Yeah, but the sacrificial table, all the black magic stuff,” he protested.
“All legal, if bloody sick, as long as they don’t actually do anything illegal with it.”
“But they were going to commit human sacrifice; they had all the stuff there. That bloke in the cellar had to have been the intended victim.”
Blaine had to give the man full marks for persistence.
“Did he? There’s no evidence to suggest that he wasn’t there of his own free will. That cellar door wasn’t locked. If he was the victim why leave the door unlocked?”
Grim finally capitulated and nodded, adding an exasperated sigh, to let Blaine know it was a reluctant surrender.
“So is it worth getting forensics on that thing?” Grimes asked, tipping his head towards the sigil. “I mean, that looks like blood, doesn’t it? I’m really out of my depth here, mate; what the hell am I supposed to do with all this shit?”
Blaine was beginning to feel sorry for him. This man was so out of his depth that he was close to going into meltdown.
“It won’t hurt for you to run some tests on it. I doubt you’ll find anything on it, though; I think that’s just red paint. Even if you find Gaunt’s DNA or fingerprints on it, it’s not going to prove anything – he could just be into eccentric decor. For what it’s worth, I doubt you’ll find any evidence of crime here. Gaunt was too careful. Just do whatever you think will be enough to satisfy the boys upstairs and move on.”
“Thanks, yeah, and if there is anything to fi
nd, you’ll be in touch, right?” There was definite panic in his voice.
Blaine took several snaps of it, while Grimes hovered, hands in pockets, looking like a vegan you had just been invited to be guest speaker at the Meat Wholesalers convention.
“All done. I promise if I find anything I’ll let you know.” Blaine was just about to leave when he had a sudden thought.
“Anything known about the warehouse? All I know is that it as owned by Geoffrey Tate, one of the deceased.”
“Not that I know of, it’s just an old warehouse, been disused for years. I’m surprised they haven’t pulled it down. Why?”
“I just wondered why they were using it for this ritual, seems a bit well, mundane for something like that.”
“Well, it was out in the middle of nowhere and pretty secluded. The only reason that we found out about it was that we got an anonymous phone call, telling us that they thought drug dealers were using it. I doubt anyone would have found it otherwise.”
“Yeah, I guess,” Blaine said. “Oh, just one more thing. There was a young PC at the crime scene yesterday. Arnold Widget? Is he okay?”
Grimes looked puzzled, his face creasing into a frown.
“Why d’yer ask?”
Blaine shrugged.
“Well, he had a bit of a bad turn yesterday when he saw Winchard’s body. I just wondered if he was okay.”
Grimes was already halfway to the door, trying to make it look as if he wasn’t in a hurry to get out of the room.
“Well, funny you should ask,” he said. “He didn’t turn in for his shift today. I’m not surprised. Mind you, I never thought he’d make it, not cut out for the force. He was acting funny yesterday once we got back to the station, wandering around like a tit in a trance.”
Blaine filed the information away, praying that he was wrong on this one. He forced a smile.
“Okay, thanks, you’re right. He struck me as being a bit of a lost cause. Oh well, thanks for the help.”
He watched Grimes walk away and went online to pull up PC Arnold Widget’s home address. It was a nice perk of the job to have instant access to data protected information that most people would never have a hope in hell of getting. It came up within seconds. That was going to be on his list of calls to make today. His first was going to be the Magic Emporium to have a word with Mr Fountain and pretty Miss Polly Nightingale.
CHAPTER SIX
Polly had got up far too early, but it was better than lying in bed staring at the ceiling and fretting. She’d heard Bert moving about during the night and guessed that he was having trouble sleeping as well. Hardly surprising with everything they’d been through recently. Finn had slept like Rip Van Winkle, a solid lump in the bed that hadn’t moved even when she rolled him over and rearranged him several times in the night to stop him snoring. She hadn’t been able to face breakfast, so she just nibbled a cereal bar and then wished she hadn’t.
“You okay, sweetheart?” Finn asked. “I mean, tell the truth, are you really okay?”
“Yes, better now,” she lied, letting him pull her into his arms. “I think that it’s time we started trying to get back to normal, just a little anyway. We’ve been so battered by the events of the last few days I think we’re all in serious need of some down time, just to get our breath back.”
A few years should do it.
“I think we could use a nice holiday, maybe a cottage down in the West Country or something. We could explore all the old castles and historical sites.”
Polly laughed.
“Or back to the Shangri-la Bed and Breakfast in York. I’m sure Maisie would give us a grand old welcome.”
Finn groaned.
“Liberace and plastic parrots, just what we need.” They both managed a laugh then, and it felt good; it was just what they needed right now. Finn’s face dropped then, the smile vanishing. “Dad needs some rest, he’s been forcing himself to keep going, but he’s not up to this kind of pressure. We need to try and take the weight off his shoulders a bit.”
Polly didn’t need to be told that, she could see it etched in every line of Bert’s face.
“I don’t want to be a pain, but if it’s all right, I’d like to go back to my house today and pick up some things. I left in such a hurry, I only brought a few bits with me.”
Bert came in then, and Polly was shocked when she saw him. There were huge rings under his eyes, and he looked drained.
“You okay, Dad?” Finn asked. Bert tried to force a smile, but it came out as more of a grimace.
“Oh, I’ve not been sleeping very well, nothing to worry about,”
Finn pulled a face.
“Dad, the problem with having a psychic in the family is that they know when you’re lying. Tell us what’s going on.”
Bert gave a weary chuckle.
“It’s nothing I can’t cope with, just bad dreams.”
He sat down at the table and seemed to sag, as if someone had let all of the air out of him.
“What sort of dreams?” Finn persisted.
Polly immediately thought that they would be about Liam and his terrible plight, but Bert said:
“I think that someone, or something, is attacking me. I have no idea what, or who, but I can sense a presence trying to get inside me, force its way in. My sigils protect me, but it’s trying very hard to break through.”
“Any idea who or what it might be?” Finn asked.
Bert stared off into space for a moment, and then gave Polly a look that made her scalp prickle.
“I’m loathed to say it, but I think that it might be your uncle, Polly. I don’t know why I feel that – it’s just a gut reaction. You mustn’t worry, I’m well protected, really, but I would like to go to Gaunt house myself and see if I can find some of your uncle’s research on the Hellstone. There may be something there that will help us with Liam. I’m sure he must have done a huge amount of research on it over the years.”
“The police will have got a search warrant. I’m sure they’re very interested in your uncle’s activities. They’ve probably already been in there and had a good look around. Won’t they have taken anything that might be of use to us?” Finn asked.
Bert waved a dismissive hand at him.
“Oh, I doubt they’d be very interested in anything about the Hellstone, to them it would just be a lot of mumbo jumbo, they’ll be more interested in looking for anything that might implicate your uncle in murder.”
Polly didn’t even want to think about that. The image of the fish-bone earring sprang to her mind; she was quite certain that her uncle had killed its owner, but what could they possibly have done with the body? As far as she knew they’d been in her uncle’s study all night and the only ways in and out of the house were through the front door and the kitchen door. The kitchen door only led into the garden with no way out into the street, and she could hardly picture them carting a dead body out of the front door knowing that she was in the house and could have come downstairs any minute.
“I daren’t even think what we’ll find in my uncle’s study, but I’m sure it’s not going to be anything good,” Polly said. What she’d seen through the door had been enough.
“Are you sure you’re safe, Dad? You’ve got me worried,” Finn said. Bert just chuckled.
“Oh my boy, the day that a loser like Elias Gaunt gets the better of me, it really will be a cold day in Hell.”
Polly wasn’t sure how she felt about going back home, although it wasn’t really home now, was it? She could never feel safe there again; it was tainted by evil. Besides, she rather liked living in the Magic Emporium – she felt it had a kind of permanence about it.
The ground outside the house had been churned up by the onslaught of what must have been several police cars; there were large tyre marks everywhere and lots of mud just waiting to be tracked into the house. The carpet in the hall was covered in muddy boot prints, and it was obvious that the police hadn’t been gone long because the mud hadn’t dried.
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“Barbarians,” Bert said.
“It will hoover up when it’s dried,” Polly replied, trying not to sound too disconsolate. She was horrified when she saw the state the living room was in. It had been ransacked.
“This is so unfair, they had no right to violate Polly’s house like this.”
“Why don’t we just get your things and go?” Finn suggested. “Dad can get some people in to clean this place up. There’s no need for you to have to put up with this. I’ve a good mind to put in a complaint.”
“They’re only doing their job. It’s okay. I’ll come back another time and do it. But, yes, let’s just get my few bits and pieces and keep this short and sweet for today, ay?”
Polly’s bedroom had always been her sanctuary, even when her grandmother was alive. It was a haven, her own little world, where she could just be herself. She had adored her grandmother, loved her as much as anyone could love another person, but there were times when even her company became too much, and she had to retreat into isolation. She did understand this need for solitude a little better now. Liam had told her that she was the most powerful psychic he had ever come across, and for so many years she’d locked that power away inside her; she had put up a barrier between her and the subtle psychic influences that were all around her, constantly trying to force their way in. She’d always been tormented by sensory overload, ‘sensory perception disorder’ she thought they called it. If there was too much noise, or light, or activity, her brain couldn’t cope with it and would shut down. She’d slip into a kind of ‘time out’, where the world just went away, and she was locked in a little vacuum for a few moments, safe from the chaos around her. Now she had opened the flood gate, and so many energies poured in she found it very hard to cope sometimes. As hard as she tried to block them all out, they still filtered through, and the only way she could maintain that careful balance was to isolate herself. When her nerves began to jangle, and she felt as if her skin was crawling with that unseen energy she would shut herself in her room and lose herself in another world, travelling to Perelandra, or Middle Earth, Narnia or, well, anywhere that wasn’t here. She loved Finn, she truly did, but he was going to have to understand that she needed her alone time. Bert had said that he would train her to control her psychic abilities, to shut out that which she couldn’t use, but she was still so unsure.
