* * *
ENOCH HART HAS ESCAPED FROM BROADMOOR
Chapter 7
A cold blast of wind rattled through the East End car park. The six floors of tightly packed parking bays were designed around a central concrete axis, like the chambers of a giant spiral shell. By day, the car park was a prime parking location for the city’s close-by financial centre. By evening, it had all but emptied and transformed itself into a high-rise echoing skeleton.
Apart from a row of bright-red payment machines and dirty tyre tracks snaking their way to the lower floors, everything had the colour of washed-out grey under the harsh overhead lighting. Next to the payment machines, a loud ping signalled the arrival of the elevator. After a short pause, the doors of the elevator clunked open and out came a black dog. It walked confidently like a leopard moving out onto the savannah, tasting the air, its head lilting from side to side, as if looking for prey. The animal dropped silently onto the circular ramp, stopped, and then looked back towards the elevator.
On the side panel next to the doors, a small downward arrow blinked on. Moments later, the elevator’s mechanism burst into life again, pulling the doors shut for its journey down to the ground floor. Just before the sliding doors had fully closed, a hand darted out from inside, reversing their direction of travel. The hand was dark and weatherworn and had black lines of dirt etched deeply into the creases of the skin. Mary stepped from the elevator, her face consumed in thought. As she walked, she talked to herself, asking and answering her own questions in the same breath. Her clothes were grimy and possessed a greasy shine to them, a reflection of months of continual wear and sleeping rough. When she joined her friend, she reached down and touched the animal’s head as if bestowing a blessing.
‘Don’t worry. We should be high enough to be safe,’ she said as she stared into her friend’s glistening eyes. ‘For now at least.’
The dog growled an acknowledgement and moved the weight of its body into the side of Mary’s leg.
‘I know, I feel it too.’ She gave the animal’s side a friendly rub and then squatted in front of it. For a moment, they both just looked at one another, reading each other’s thoughts. Mary smiled solemnly, closed her eyes and then nuzzled her cheek into the dog’s muzzle. She felt the shifting weight of a heavy object in her coat.
‘You don’t need to take on this burden,’ she whispered, her eyes still shut. ‘Oh, my dear friend, you know you can get out now, before it all starts? I was the one who was chosen, not you.’
The dog moved its head away from Mary’s cheek and tugged at the arm of her coat.
‘Okay.’ She smiled. ‘You lead the way then.’
With that, the dog turned and trotted off towards the simple window set in the concrete wall on the other side of the floor. The animal’s nose arrived at the protective metal bars several seconds before Mary’s footsteps stopped behind him. Standing by the animal, Mary peered through the bars and gasped. The London skyline had been transformed into a dreadful spectacle. A huge blood red moon filled the sky. It was as if the entire city were ablaze and the moon was a gigantic mirror reflecting the raging flames into the very fabric of the heavens. In all her days, Mary had seen nothing like it. Her hand searched for the dog’s shoulder to find a familiar anchor. The animal snapped at the giant moon hanging low in the sky. Sensing the onset of the eclipse seconds before she could see it, Mary tightened her grasp around the dog’s fur.
In that moment, the sharp outline of the earth’s shadow became visible against the moon like a silent advancing tide. As the black margin edged further across the moon’s face, the sky darkened.
The silhouette of a lone construction crane stood like a miniature flag against the moon’s receding circle. Even though the crane stood some distance away from the car park, its base lost in the silhouette of the skyline, Mary knew its exact location. Like a pointer, it marked a building site in an ancient area of London known as the Minories. The name sent a cold chill racing down her spine. Soon the outline of the crane became consumed in the eclipse’s unstoppable wake.
Mary felt her heart quicken at the advancing line of blackness. The crane stood on cursed ground. The construction of the Minories Hospital had transformed the surrounding area aboveground, but nothing could erase the darkness that lurked beneath. It had once invaded her and tried to make her its own.
Chapter 8
The striking white-stoned profile of St George-in-the-East stood brightly in its overgrown grounds. The sound of salsa music burst forth from the small crypt window. Directly outside the narrow grass-level opening, accompanied by the big brassy sound of horns and Afro-Cuban percussion, a small dog bounded after an insect awoken by the glorious sunshine.
At this time of the morning, the Nigerian housekeeper had the place to herself. As her ample bottom moved in time to the bongos and timbales, her hands plunged into the large sink of soapy water. Every few seconds, she plucked a coffee cup from the sink and deposited it onto the drying cloth by her side. Up until now, she had had two loves in her life: Jesus Christ and Salsa dancing. Maybe a third was on the horizon, God willing.
She had met a certain gentleman at her Thursday night dance lesson six weeks ago. Since then, she had felt the happiest she had in ages. They had hit it off from the moment the music started. He worked as a tube train driver and lived in Bethnal Green with his son. Over the weeks, they had danced and laughed and laughed and danced, each week getting a little closer. As he helped her on with her coat at the end of a lesson, he confided that he had been widowed in his early forties and had recently been feeling low. She was a ray of sunshine in his life, he had told her. Yes, a ray of sunshine, she thought, as her fingers located a stray teaspoon within the watery suds.
All of a sudden, the sound of paws scurrying on flagstones made her turn around. A small dog with a bottlebrush tail started jumping up at her, its black and shiny eyes beckoning her to follow. She leant her head back and sighed.
‘Yes, yes, my gorgeous child. You want me to play with you outside?’ she said as she dried her hands on her flower-print dress.
Minutes later, the housekeeper and Reverend Jackson’s dog were out in the sunshine. By the time she turned the corner into the church gardens, the dog had already disappeared, only its yapping leading the way.
‘I’m coming, I’m coming,’ said the housekeeper as the dog’s chatter turned to a full-scale bark. She rounded the west wall and surveyed the flowerbeds for the sign of a tail bobbing between the beds of daffodils. She quickly realised that the barking was coming from a recess in the wall further up ahead.
As she got closer, a sense of unease began to build around her, like a coil getting tighter and tighter. Reverend Jackson’s dog appeared from the recess in the wall. It had stopped barking and just stared back at the housekeeper, its eyes edged with confusion and panic. A strange spinning nausea churned inside the housekeeper’s stomach. Then she saw it, and a scream exploded from her chest. The scene was monstrous. The whitewashed wall of the alcove was streaked with long crimson trails of blood. At the base lay the horrifically mutilated body of a naked woman.
Chapter 9
DCI Lukas Milton zipped up his crime scene overalls and waved back at the forensics officer at the entrance to St George-in-the-East. The church’s white facade almost shone in the bright sunshine. The Afro-Caribbean police officer looked up and took in the strange and powerful profile of the building, its silhouette more in keeping with a castle than a typical church. After exchanging pleasantries, Milton and the forensics officer started walking and their conversation quickly turned to the facts.
‘Female, 32, Nicola Booth, no fixed address. She was staying at a shelter run by the church.’
‘Who found the body?’ asked Milton as he adjusted his tinted glasses.
‘The Vicar’s housekeeper. She had to be sedated. It’s quite a mess. The church safe was also cleared out a couple of days ago.’
‘No CCTV I presume?’
‘
It’s a church, they don’t have the money for CCTV. The photography boys are nearly done, and then we’ll start the sweep of the church grounds,’ she continued.
They wound a route past the front of the church onto a gravel path circling the building.
‘You worked the last job here?’ asked Milton.
‘I did,’ said the forensics officer. ‘We’ve just walked past the spot.’
The crunching of gravel underfoot stopped and they turned around.
‘Just past that door,’ nodded the woman, her face dappled in the morning sunlight. A heavy wooden door was set into the wall, its hinges shining with layers of black enamel paint. ‘They kept the garden tools in there,’ she said. ‘The boss tells me that Hart escaped from Broadmoor a couple of days ago.’ Her words were punctuated by long pauses while she considered her thoughts. She turned to Milton. ‘That bastard needs to be taken down.’
Milton straightened up and scratched at the dusting of a beard around his chin. ‘We’ll get him,’ he said, his voice sounding like dry leather.
‘I mean permanently,’ said the forensics officer. ‘What that monster has done here, it’s inhuman.’
A deep crease formed between Milton’s eyebrows. He nodded in acknowledgement, and the two officers walked in silence along the path.
They turned the corner and Milton felt a cool breeze ease past his cheek. Ahead, standing up against an alcove in the wall, was a large forensics tent. ‘Metropolitan Police, working for a safer London’ was displayed on the side. Milton slowed as he approached and felt unease build in his gut. He ducked under the tent entrance and immediately sucked in air. His eyes tried to take in the scene.
‘By the volume of blood, she was very much alive when her throat was cut. Probably standing,’ said the forensics officer, who joined Milton in the tent. The body of a naked young woman lay some ten feet away from the wall. Long lines of dark blood daubed the white back wall like a macabre firework display. The grass surrounding the body was pebbled with large drops of dried blood.
The forensics officer followed Milton’s eyes around the scene. ‘The carotid artery must have been still pumping hard to make this pattern on the plasterwork,’ she said. ‘Her throat was cut twice, left to right.’
‘Right handed,’ said Milton as he scratched at the side of his face and moved around the body.
‘The victim was laid on her back and then the killer—’ the officer screwed up the sides of her eyes, ‘—performed these mutilations,’ she said with chilling simplicity.
Cut deep into both cheeks were two inverted V shapes. The cuts were obviously made by a long sharp blade.
‘Both upper eyelids have been removed,’ she added, as small tics of revulsion fired across her face.
Milton frowned and continued to look into the large doll-like eyes staring up at him. ‘This alcove provided him with perfect cover. He wouldn’t have been seen by anyone walking in either direction, not until they were level with him.’ He rubbed his flat nose and then tilted his head to the side. He glanced at the timeworn stone inscription set into the base of the wall. The date 1729 could still be made out in the lichen-speckled granite.
‘There’s something else sir.’
‘Okay,’ said Milton.
The officer crouched down and shuffled closer to the corpse.
‘Another incision has been made into the victim’s body, here.’
The forensics officer pointed to a line cut into the skin, two inches long to the right of the victim’s navel. Although the cut wasn’t deep, it had lifted an area of skin from the connecting tissue.
‘Something had been placed under her skin.’
‘Something?’
The officer hauled herself up and walked over to her forensics holdall. She picked out a clear plastic evidence bag and handed it over to the DCI.
‘What the hell is this?’
‘It’s a coin,’ she paused. ‘A Roman coin, I think.’
Milton raised the bag and squinted at the metal disc adhering to the side of the plastic. It was about an inch across and dark with blood.
‘Once you’ve tested it for DNA, I’ll get Blake to have a look at it.’
‘Vincent Blake?’ asked the woman.
‘The very same,’ said Milton, not looking up from the coin. ‘You know him?’
‘By reputation,’ said the officer. ‘Does he know about these things?’
‘When things get crazy like this, there’s no one better,’ replied Milton, handing her back the bag.
From outside the tent came raised voices, followed by the loud barking of a dog. Milton and the forensics officer exchanged glances and then moved outside to locate the disturbance.
‘Just some tramp causing trouble.’ The officer lost interest in the noise and stepped back inside the tent.
On the other side of the church gardens stood a dishevelled figure whose back was to Milton and who was being cautioned by a uniformed constable. Milton could hear everything.
‘I’m going to have to ask you to leave. This is an active crime scene and it is prohibited for you to be here.’
A large black dog paced the two figures, all the time looking up at the tramp’s face.
The tramp said nothing and rocked gently from foot to foot in a grimy full-length coat.
‘This is your final warning. If you don’t leave now, madam, I’m going to have to place you under arrest.’
The homeless woman shrugged her shoulders and turned to get one final look at the church.
Milton’s interest in the figure sharpened when he saw her face. He had an eerie feeling of recognition. For a moment, he thought his mind was playing tricks with him. He had walked past her picture a hundred times on the incident board outside his office. Milton tore off his glasses. She was now staring directly at him. Despite greasy hair falling around her face in large tangled clumps, Milton could make out her wild and haunting eyes. He felt impaled by her stare. Without warning, Milton rushed forwards.
‘Stop that woman,’ he shouted to the constable as his bulky frame gained momentum.
The constable reached out to grab the woman but grasped thin air as the homeless woman slipped past him. A heavy object shifted in the pocket of her coat. She pulled it close to her, running towards the road.
As the constable turned to take chase, his path was quickly blocked by the black dog. It bristled with threat, saliva trailing from exposed fangs. It paced up and down while growling fiercely. Milton slowed to a walk and edged towards the animal through the tall shadows falling on the grass.
‘Good dog,’ he said hesitantly, keeping one eye on the dog and one eye on the tramp climbing over the low wall onto Cannon Street Road.
A shrill whistle sounded, and the dog pushed forward on its hind legs to sprint at full speed after the woman. It disappeared over the wall in seconds. Milton followed behind running as fast as he could. After pulling himself up onto the wall, his eyes raked up and down the busy road. His focus quickly locked onto the woman, who was half walking and half running pushing her way through a wall of pedestrians.
For a moment, Milton considered his options and then swallowed hard. The wall was only two brick-widths wide. After wiping away the salty moisture from his forehead, he raised his arms by his sides and started to run on top of the wall like a tightrope walker rushing back to safety. Soon he was moving fast, unimpeded by other people. He avoided looking down as he jumped over a gap in the brickwork. He was gaining ground on the woman. She was now only twenty feet ahead. His chest burned. He could see the dog by her side weaving through the legs of shoppers and office workers moving along the pavement. The dog noticed him first. It growled a warning. Alerted by the dog, the tramp stole a glance over her shoulder and quickened her pace.
All of a sudden Milton’s foot slipped, knocking him off balance. For several tottering steps, and propelled by his forward momentum, Milton managed to stay upright. But as his body lurched out of control, his legs began to buckle. Instead of fal
ling into the pavement, his large frame teetered to the opposite side. He came down hard onto a pile of bricks abandoned on the edge of some park ground close to the church. A jolting agony ripped through his shoulder, and his eyes screwed shut as he recoiled from the pain.
Chapter 10
The rain drummed heavily on the roof of Blake’s red Alfa Romeo. He looked through beating windscreen wipers to the inconspicuous wooden door of the mortuary on the other side of the road.
After turning up the collar of his jacket, and cursing himself for leaving his overcoat at home, he ventured out into the deluge. Cold rain splashed into his face as he hand-locked the car door. By the time a safe gap in the traffic opened for him to cross the road, chilled rivulets of water were running down his back. Thankfully, he was buzzed through the door quickly, and he shook the rain off in the foyer. After signing himself in, he was escorted to examination room three, where Dr Sullivan, the forensic pathologist, and DCI Milton were in deep discussion, standing either side of a table of shining surgical instruments. The smell of disinfectant hung in the air.
‘Still raining, then,’ said Sullivan, enjoying the spectacle of Blake looking like a drowned rat.
Blake didn’t answer.
‘Right, let’s get this thing done.’ Milton walked over to the body laid out on the examination table at the centre of the room.
Dr Sullivan tapped on a floor switch and the corpse was suddenly illuminated in a strong white light from overhead.
‘Shit,’ Blake breathed out. Milton had warned him about the details of the crime, but the ferocity of the victim’s wounds made his stomach churn.
The portly pathologist glanced up at Milton, who gave a small nod to begin.
‘Right, the victim is in her early thirties, 5 feet 4 inches in height, weight 111 pounds.’ Dr Sullivan circled around the table to the head. ‘Working our way down the body, both eyelids have been removed and, by the lack of surrounding trauma, with a very sharp blade,’ said Sullivan. Blake looked down at the utterly empty eyes staring up at the light.
The Devil’s Architect: Book Two of the Dark Horizon Trilogy Page 3
