The Devil’s Architect: Book Two of the Dark Horizon Trilogy

by Duncan Simpson

  ‘Don’t get your hopes up too much, it’s only a little something.’

  As his daughter tentatively felt through the gift wrap to the object inside, she began to giggle. It was infectious, and moments later the three of them were laughing uncontrollably together. It felt like winter had ended and the spring had finally arrived. Seconds after discarding the gift wrap to the floor, Sarah was checking out the look of her new cap in Alina’s make up mirror.

  ‘Like it?’

  ‘You bet,’ she said tucking an unruly ringlet of her hair back beneath the brim.

  ‘Good,’ said Blake putting his arm around her shoulder. ‘After all, I’ve waited a long time to be able to do this.’ With that Blake took the rim of the hat and pulled it down over her eyes.

  ‘Dad the hair, watch the hair.’

  After a short pause, hoots of juddering laughter were bouncing across Sarah’s shoulders.

  Chapter 29

  ‘Dr Blake, come in, come in. My security manager is just leaving,’ said Angelo Ricard as he beckoned Blake into his office. Ricard’s security manager was a big, broad-shouldered man, well-muscled, with a low-set forehead. He got up from his seat and offered Blake a polite smile. As he passed him at the door, Blake couldn’t help but glance at the prominent port-wine stain that spanned the length of his right cheekbone. Blake returned the smile and closed the door behind him.

  ‘Take a seat,’ said Ricard. ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Love some, black please.’

  Ricard leaned over the table and handed Blake a cup of steaming hot coffee. The aroma wafted upwards from the stylish china cup and met Blake’s nose, resulting in a satisfied murmur of pleasure. Having worked through lunch, he gratefully accepted the offer of a biscuit from the matching plate. He took a bite and brushed away the crumbs from his shirt.

  ‘Nice office,’ said Blake as he nodded in appreciation of his surroundings.

  The office, located in the prestigious Middle Temple, was part of the Inns of Court, the collection of buildings and precincts making up one of London’s historic legal centres. Situated close to the Royal Courts of Justice, the Middle Temple could trace its origins back to 1422 and derived its name from the nearby Temple Church. Today, most of the offices of the Middle Temple were taken by barristers plying their trade. Obviously not all, thought Blake as he took a sip from his cup.

  The office was large by any standards, but especially so considering it was in such a prestigious old building in the heart of the city. The walls were oak panelled and decorated with an eclectic mix of paintings and photographs. In contrast to the walls, the furniture and furnishings adorning the room were bang up-to-date. Ricard’s steel-and-glass desk was presidential in its proportions, with a sleek Anglepoise lamp standing to salute at its side. The rental on the lease alone would be eye-watering, but property development was where Ricard had made his money and he knew all the tricks of his trade.

  ‘Been here long?’

  ‘Oh, a very long time,’ answered Ricard, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs. Blake glanced at the gleaming shine of Ricard’s shoes and compared them to his own. He cleared his throat in embarrassment.

  Ricard was immaculately dressed in a light blue suit that hung effortlessly from his trim frame. A distinctive red pocket square tucked into the breast pocket of his jacket finished off the ensemble. Blake’s suit had creases, but none of them were in the right places.

  ‘Thank you for seeing me at such short notice,’ said Blake.

  ‘Not at all. When I heard about poor Joyce, it was the least I could do.’

  The two men sat in silence for a moment.

  ‘Would you mind me asking you a few questions?’

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘Tell me about the Servant Church of London.’

  ‘Anything specific?’

  ‘Sorry, the reason I ask is that I was at the crime scene with DCI Milton at the church’s offices in Southwark.’

  ‘Okay?’

  ‘I saw a plaque on the side of the building with your name on it.’

  ‘I’m lost,’ he shrugged.

  ‘On a list of donors to the building.’ The penny dropped.

  ‘Ah, yes, I support the work of the church.’ Ricard repositioned his glasses on the bridge of his nose. ‘I have been very fortunate over the years, and in my small way I try and give something back, where I can. The church is a real blessing to the local community. I don’t know if you saw it whilst you were there, but the church runs a homeless shelter. It does a brilliant job providing food and a roof over people’s heads who would otherwise be sleeping on the streets. My contributions bless the church, and the church blesses the community. That’s the way it works in the church family.’

  ‘I see,’ said Blake before taking a gulp of coffee.

  ‘Any reason?’ said Ricard.

  ‘I am trying to work a line of enquiry linking the killings.’

  ‘Line of enquiry? With Enoch Hart you mean?’

  ‘My question about the plaque was more to do with the fact that the church’s office was built on the foundations of an older Hawksmoor church. St John Horsleydown, I think.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Ricard.

  ‘The first two murders took place at St George-in-the-East, another Hawksmoor church. Maybe a coincidence?’

  ‘But you don’t think so,’ said Ricard.

  Blake shrugged his shoulders. ‘That’s what I am trying to find out.’

  The two men measured each other for a second, and then Ricard offered Blake some more coffee. Blake accepted and whilst Ricard poured, he helped himself to another biscuit, this one glossy with Belgian chocolate. He took a sip from his refilled cup.

  ‘You were saying?’ said Ricard, settling back into his chair.

  ‘I understand you have an interest in Hawksmoor churches,’ said Blake.

  Ricard pondered the question for a second.

  ‘Buildings are my profession, but you could say that church buildings are my passion. You probably know that I am the chair of the trustees of the Hawksmoor City Churches. It’s been a hard slog over the years, but we’ve managed to save several of Hawksmoor’s city churches from near dereliction. Restoring churches costs millions, but through the support of our donors across the world, we have managed to fight off the speculators and transform the neglected shells of these buildings into a network of functioning churches. All of them have growing congregations,’ Ricard added enthusiastically. ‘The fact that I have a lot of connections in the industry helps too, I suppose,’ he said with a smile. ‘Poacher-turned-gamekeeper, you could say. If you want to know about Nicolas Hawksmoor, you’ve come to the right place.’

  ‘The killings—do you see a connection with the churches?’ said Blake.

  ‘Until you mentioned it, it hadn’t occurred to me.’

  ‘Nor me, until I read the plaque. Hart is still at large and if we don’t get to him soon, my suspicion is that he’s going to kill again.’

  ‘At a Hawksmoor church, you mean?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘That’s terrible.’ Ricard pulled at the back of his hair.

  ‘The last two murders also coincided with the occurrence of blood moons.’

  ‘I remember, they were quite unsettling’ said Ricard. ‘So you think there’s a connection there as well?’

  ‘That’s my hunch,’ said Blake as he returned his coffee cup to the table.

  ‘I’m not sure how I can help?’

  ‘Can you see a reason for these connections?’

  Ricard thumbed his chin for a moment.

  ‘Well, if you think of something, it doesn’t matter how small. Maybe we can anticipate Hart’s next move. At the moment, the police have hit a brick wall. They’ve no idea where he is.’

  ‘It doesn’t surprise me. Enoch Hart is a man with many talents. His SAS training will make him very difficult to find. Evasion from capture training, I think that’s what they call it in the forces. I still can’t q
uite believe what’s happened to him. After finding the Lord and leaving the army, he worked tirelessly doing God’s work.’

  ‘What kind of work?’ asked Blake.

  ‘Hart worked with some of the neediest people in the city: the homeless, addicts, prostitutes, refugees. He followed the example of Christ to the letter of the scriptures. Giving himself fully to the Great Commission.’

  Ricard’s focus dropped to the surface of the table.

  ‘His superiors recognised that he was burnt out and tried to limit his work, but he carried on regardless. He must have had some kind of breakdown and then …’

  A silence fell between the two men.

  ‘All this terrible business,’ said Ricard finally, shaking his head. ‘I just can’t believe it.’

  ‘Can you think of anything, anything at all?’ pressed Blake.

  Ricard redrew his focus back from the table.

  ‘I just can’t think. The church has been fighting the powers of darkness for millennia. Good and evil are always close to each other.’ A thought rose in his mind. ‘Just take the names of the streets close to the offices of the Servant Church of London.’

  ‘Sorry, how so?’

  ‘Believe it or not, the church offices back onto a road called Druid Street. A strange name to call a street, with all its dark, pagan connotations. The bizarre thing is that, Druid Street runs directly into another road called Crucifix Lane. Good and evil running into one another if you will. I suppose every good man has a little bit of bad in him, and vice versa.’

  Blake considered the matter for a second.

  ‘Druids, in London?’

  ‘Yes, well that’s the folklore anyway. The Druids themselves never wrote anything down. There’s even a tradition that at the foot of Ludgate Hill, where St Paul’s Cathedral stands today, there once stood a great Druid stone circle, that extended as far south as Southwark.’

  Blake nodded slowly, trying to imagine such a stone circle, then he glanced at his watch.

  ‘Look, I don’t want to keep you. If you think of anything please give me a call.’

  The two men rose to their feet and shook hands. As Blake moved to the door, he noticed a group of photographs forming a line across the wood-panelled wall. The subject of each photograph was similar: a group of women, sitting or standing in several lines, like the squad photo for a football team. Ricard acknowledged Blake’s interest.

  ‘Past residents of the shelter,’ he said. ‘Every year we take a picture, it’s a brilliant reminder of the people we’ve helped through the work of the church.’ He paused for a moment contemplating the faces staring back from the pictures. ‘Now and again, it’s good to reflect on the lives of the people that have passed through the shelter.’

  Blake glanced at the picture last in the line. He recognised the face of Joyce Khumalo, the victim of the last killing. She looked happy and carefree, her hands resting on the shoulders of a fellow resident kneeling in the front row. Little could she have known of the horror that would be waiting for her on that fateful night just days ago. Blake backed away from the wall.

  Ricard had taken the moment to straighten another of the photos that had been hanging slightly out of line to the others. Blake’s eyes drifted over to it and widened. Stepping closer, he felt his senses sharpen.

  ‘This woman, who is she?’ he asked, his voice tightening as he spoke. Blake’s fingertip singled out the lone figure standing to one side of two lines of women in the photograph.

  ‘That lady?’ said Ricard.

  ‘Yes,’ Blake confirmed, his body stiffening.

  ‘Oh yes, that was Mary. I won’t forget her in a hurry. She didn’t stay in the shelter for very long. I think I mentioned her the last time we met. She was very sick for a while.’

  ‘Sick?’

  ‘Mentally unstable, bipolar. A lot of our residents suffer from mental illness; it’s a very common precursor to living on the streets. But she was different. She complained of hearing voices and then things really got out of hand.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She became deranged, started drawing things on the walls and then tried to set light to the shelter. If it wasn’t for the sprinklers, the whole place would have gone up in flames.’

  ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘The police got involved, they took statements, a formal report was lodged, but she was never charged. She was ill and we weren’t going to abandon one of our own. Even though he was exhausted, Enoch Hart volunteered to care for her. He had special experience in dealing with Mary’s type of condition.’

  ‘What kind of condition?’

  ‘Do you believe in God, Mr Blake?’ said Ricard, searching Blake’s eyes.

  Blake shrugged, not really knowing what to say.

  ‘Because you won’t fully understand Enoch Hart’s work unless you do.’

  ‘I’m not sure that I follow?’

  ‘After the army, Hart trained in Rome for several years under the tutelage of a man called Father Theodore. Through his training, he discovered that he possessed a gift and a calling for a special ministry.’

  ‘Special ministry?’ asked Blake.

  ‘He was trained to deliver the Rite.’ The last word hung heavily in the air.

  Blake’s stomach suddenly lurched.

  ‘What you mean, he was an exorcist? You’re kidding?’ Blake said incredulously.

  ‘The Vatican gives three signs that indicate the presence of a demon: unnatural strength, the ability to speak in a previously unknown language and knowledge of facts that should naturally be unknown to the person. Mary showed all of these signs. Dr Blake, she had become very disturbed, writing on the walls of her room in her own blood. She tried to set the shelter alight, she could have killed dozens of people.’

  Blake felt a strong sense of foreboding rise through his body.

  ‘Hart performed the Rite over her, a demon was exorcised, but the strain was too great for Hart. He suffered some type of mental breakdown and in a psychotic frenzy stabbed the vicar of St George’s to death. Mary fled, never to be seen again. It was a terrible scene. I saw it with my own eyes. At the trial, Hart coldly admitted to the murder. He showed no remorse.’

  Blake eyed Ricard. They stood in silence for a moment and then Blake’s focus returned to the photograph. His eyes drilled into the picture. His stare froze on the dishevelled woman standing to the side of a group of grinning residents, a black dog sitting by her feet.

  ‘I’ve met this woman before,’ he said finally with cold simplicity.

  Chapter 30

  ‘Lights,’ Blake shouted from the kitchen. Alina hit the light switch and the living room was cast into semi-darkness. Carefully he coaxed the plate holding the birthday cake onto his palm. The lighted candles around the cake’s perimeter trembled as he edged his way out of the door, causing elongated shadows to rear up onto the living room wall.

  ‘Happy birthday,’ said Blake as he rounded the corner balancing the cake. ‘This is dad’s special homemade cake, not like the shop stuff we had earlier.’

  As soon as he had finished speaking, he could feel the cake slide from under his hand. Twisting on his feet, he managed to follow the arc of its shifting weight and safely land the cake onto the living room table.

  ‘That was close,’ said Sarah.

  ‘All under control,’ said Blake, feigning an expression of mock surprise at the suggestion.

  Sarah’s birthday party was a great success. Earlier that afternoon, the living room had been full of Sarah’s old and new school friends. She had been worried that the two groups wouldn’t mix, but she needn’t have, as both sets of friends exchanged hugs and social media addresses when it came time to go. Out of the invited guests, only their new neighbours, Dr Desai and his daughter Noorjehan, were left. Dr Desai was a well-dressed Indian man in his late forties who lectured at Kings College London. Noorjehan was a pretty girl with large dark eyes, and was only slightly younger than Sarah.

  ‘Don’t
forget to make a wish,’ said Dr Desai, his hands resting on the back of his daughter’s shoulders.

  Blake watched as Sarah, flushed with excitement, took a deep breath and blew out with all her might. It was so good to have her back home. Blake thought of Nomsa and imagined her being there, handing out napkins and fussing over their beautiful daughter.

  He allowed himself a moment to regain his composure as Sarah extinguished the last of the candles.

  ‘Dad, the knife,’ said Sarah motioning to the kitchen knife still in his hand.

  He carefully passed the knife over by the handle and watched Sarah cut large wedges out of the cake. Just then a loud knock came from the front door.

  ‘Shhhhh,’ came Blake’s voice in the darkness.

  Another rap echoed from the door. Alina found the light switch and Blake pushed himself up from his chair. He wound a route around the chairs to the door, twisted its rattling handle, and opened it.

  His face fell at the sight of the woman standing in the doorway.

  ‘Rosalind,’ he exclaimed. For a moment, a brief uncertainty flashed across his face.

  ‘Aren’t you going to give your sister a hug?’ said the woman.

  * * *

  ‘Come on, it’s time for sleep,’ said Blake as he squared up Sarah’s duvet. ‘You can catch up with Auntie Rosalind tomorrow.’

  ‘But Dad, I haven’t seen her in ages, just five more minutes please,’ said Sarah with pleading eyes.

  ‘Bed,’ said Blake, forcing a tone of finality into his voice.

  Hovering at the door, Alina waved over to him. ‘I’ll read to her,’ she mouthed silently.

  ‘Thank you,’ he whispered back, his eyebrows lifting with gratitude.

  Alina stepped into the room and was greeted with Sarah’s cheeky grin beaming over the edge of the duvet. Alina reached up to search the bookshelf on the far wall of Sarah’s bedroom, and from her bed, Sarah guided Alina’s finger to the book she wanted. As she tugged the paperback free from the shelf, Blake’s eyes noticed the line of Alina’s trim stomach peeping out from under her crop top. His gaze also clocked the square shaped contour of a nicotine patch stuck to her skin close to her navel.