‘I don’t know. Hawksmoor’s churches are the key. On the nights of the blood moons, Mary and I have camped out at several Hawksmoor churches, guessing which one might be next. We guessed right on the second eclipse in the tetrad.’
‘At the Servant Church of London?’ asked Blake.
‘I got several shots off at the killer whilst he was fleeing the scene, but I missed. It was dark and the wind was up. I couldn’t see his face; it was covered in a ski mask.’
Blake flashed back to the bullet holes in the walls of the church’s office. Had he been wrong all along? Had the police been hunting the wrong man? His mind was reeling with the possibilities.
‘The killer just needs to sacrifice one more victim to complete the hellish pattern. They will stop at nothing to make this happen. The London Stone could have been used against the evil, but last night it was blown up.’ Deep lines were etched across Hart’s face.
Just at that moment, the air was filled with the sound of sirens shrieking close by. With his eyes raking the skyline, Hart shouted over to Mary.
‘We’ve got to get out of here now.’
Blake watched as Hart plunged his weapon into his coat pocket. His hand came out minus the gun but holding a small ring of keys. A fraction of a second later, they were flying in Blake’s direction. His bound hands grabbed them out of the air.
‘Wait,’ he shouted over the cold breeze, but Mary and Hart were already disappearing into the thick darkness.
‘What about the rod?’ he shouted. ‘What’s it for?’
Hart shouted back over his shoulder, but his words were drowned out by the sound of sirens.
Chapter 46
Blake worked the key to his front door and shouldered it open. His mind was racing, swirling with thoughts. He had returned from Crossbones Graveyard with more questions than answers. Was it beyond imagination to think that Hart was telling the truth? His description of the events surrounding Mary’s exorcism might be difficult to accept, but that didn’t make it untrue.
Before, he and Milton had been operating in the dark, convinced that Hart had been the killer. Had they got the whole thing wrong? Deep in his mind he sensed that now at least, he had found a handhold to help pull himself out of the darkness. He could only hope that he read the ex-special forces soldier right.
He headed for the kitchen and tried to wash away his headache with some cold water from the sink. He was worn out by fatigue and worry, but his mind refused to slow down, trapped in a maze of guesswork and assumptions. Watching the water drain from the sink, he considered again the shocking writing that Mary had written in her own blood on the walls of the shelter.
HAWKSMOOR
* * *
FOUR BLOOD ALTARS
FOUR BLOOD SACRIFICES
FOUR BLOOD COINS
FOUR BLOOD MOONS
And what was the other thing that had been written underneath the quatrain?
EVE CAN’T BLINK
After retrieving a bottle of beer from the fridge, he hunted in a kitchen drawer for a pencil. He found one, slid it into his back pocket, and made his way quietly back into the hallway. Seeing the chipped soap dish perched on the bookcase in the hallway, he dug his hand into his coat pocket for his keys. Instead of the familiar outline of the key fob of his Alfa Romeo, his fingers met the jagged edge of something hard in his pocket. His hand momentarily recoiled, and then he remembered the fragment of the London Stone he had retrieved from the blown-out remains of the office building. Carefully he plucked it out of his pocket. If Mary was right, then the piece of white limestone in his hands had been used by the Druids thousands of years ago. Had it been part of a huge stone circle?
Not wanting to make too much noise, he crept up the stairs and along the landing to his bedroom. The landing light made a loud click when he switched it on. Rounding his bed, he placed the stone inside his bedside table and lifted an old leather briefcase from the floor.
A minute later he was sitting on the sofa in his living room with the beer in his hand and the briefcase on his lap. He gulped down a swig of strong Belgian beer and swept a hand over the cracked surface of the leather briefcase. It felt old and rough, like sunburnt skin. Straining forwards, he placed the bottle on the coffee table and clicked open the lock to the briefcase. Blake rummaged through its contents and pulled out the police case file for the Hawksmoor murders.
With the events of the last few hours playing in his mind, he skimmed through the pages of the report, pausing at the grisly crime scene photographs in a wallet stuck onto its back cover. The scenes of carnage were horrific beyond belief. But they weren’t random acts of brutality; these were premeditated and precise. He edged himself off the sofa and discarded the file next to the bottle of beer on the coffee table. His attention drifted to his makeshift map on the far wall. It had become something of a familiar feature of the room.
He stepped closer, his eyes darting between the positions of the murder sites marked on the wall. He ticked them off in his head: St George-in-the-East, St John Horsleydown, Christchurch Spitalfields. According to Hart and Mary’s prophetic blood writing on the walls of the shelter, there would be one more murder. But where? Time was running out. The final blood moon of the tetrad was just days away. It would take place at a Hawksmoor church, that was certain, but which one?
During his career, the enigmatic architect had built eight churches in London. Six as sole endeavours, two jointly as a collaboration with another architect. Three of these churches had already been used for killing. It would make sense for one of the other five to be the intended site for the completion of the killer’s diabolical scheme.
A thick vein throbbed in his temple, which he tried to rub away with the heel of his hand. From out of nowhere something zipped across his mind. It was something that Mary had said when she had described the line of dark energy that had led her from the shelter to the Minories. What did she say exactly? That the very fabric of the building had been connected to the Minories by a line of dark energy?
Within a second, he was on his phone, pulling up a map of the Minories and checking its relative location to the three murder sites. His fingers fumbled for the pencil in his back pocket. Working quickly, he marked the locations on the wall. With an artist’s hand, he drew a perfectly straight line linking the shelter, the old site of St John Horsleydown, to the Minories. He could feel his heart quickening. Then he drew another line linking St George-in-the-East to the Minories. This time his hand had started to tremble. He held his breath and then placed the tip of the pencil on the blue blob of paint, marking the position of Christchurch, Spitalfields in the north. With his mouth tightly pinched shut, he drew his pencil downwards towards the mark indicating the position of the Minories.
His heart was in his throat as he stepped back and surveyed the wall. All three churches were exactly equidistant from the Minories, which was at the very centre of the pattern. But something was missing. One line linked the east to the centre, one line linked the south to the centre, and the line from Christchurch to the Minories connected the north to the centre. Blake’s gaze automatically zoned in on the imaginary line linking the Minories to a point equidistant and to the west of the centre of the pattern. He moved back to gain perspective. Blake then marked the missing position on the map and drew a corresponding line to the other three. The four lines now formed a perfect cross with the Minories at its middle.
With his mind steaming forwards, he referred back to his phone. He pecked at its keyboard for several seconds. Moments later, a map of the area indicated by the end of Blake’s imaginary line popped up on its display. He quickly resized the map with his fingertips and orientated it with his drawing on the wall. His eyes scanned the screen, looking for a familiar place name. Next to a logo indicating the location of Bank Tube Station was the familiar cross sign motif indicating the position of a church: St Mary Woolnoth. The name screamed up at Blake from the centre of the phone’s display and exploded in his mind like a flare going of
f over the sea. He knew where the fourth killing would take place. Whoever was carrying out these brutal crimes was killing his victims at locations that formed a massive cross across London. He stabbed a finger on the spot at the middle of the cross on the wall. The Minories had been the missing link. It was at the centre of everything. He was mad with himself for not seeing it sooner.
Another piece of the jigsaw dawned on him. He rushed to the coffee table and shook out the crime scene photographs from the back of the police file. His eyes darted over each picture in turn. Elements in the photos that had once seemed random were now forming connections in his brain: the orientation of the victim’s bodies, the positioning of the bizarre coins implanted under the victims’ skin.
Not only had the killer chosen to murder his victims at locations that formed the points of a cross, but Blake guessed that he had also carefully orientated their bodies along the axis of the cross too. He had noticed that even though the killings had been frenzied, the bodies had been deliberately repositioned afterwards. Blake surmised that if checked, their orientation would follow the cardinal points of the cross. Not only that, but the positioning of the coins around the victim’s stomach would also follow the same cross-like pattern. If the victim’s navel corresponded to the Minories central position on the map, each of the cuts opening a pocket in the skin followed the same pattern as the actual murders.
‘Well I’ll be damned,’ he whispered in the stillness of the room. Blake stared at the wall for a long while before collapsing on the sofa as if his legs had given out. He waited until the first streak of dawn appeared outside his living room window before phoning Milton.
Chapter 47
The sky was a mural of billowing white clouds set against a background of perfect blue. As the sun made its way across the sky, shadows grew on the sides of the buildings of the Middle Temple. Blake had power-walked his way from DCI Milton’s office. He had welcomed the brisk exercise, but it hadn’t cleared his head. Milton had greeted Blake’s discovery of the underlying pattern behind the killings with a gaping mouth and a celebratory smack of his fist in his palm. He had been much less accepting of Blake’s postulation that Hart hadn’t been behind the murders. Talk of evil spirits and blood writing held little sway in the analytical mind of a seasoned detective, especially since Hart had been on record admitting responsibility for the first murder at St George’s. With a sceptical arch of his brow, Milton had reminded Blake that Hart had carried out a daring escape from a maximum-security prison. He was an extremely dangerous and resourceful man on the run and would remain the UK’s most wanted man.
Patting him on the back, Milton had suggested that Blake check his theory out with Angelo Ricard. Milton’s assistant would clear the way for a meeting. Less than an hour later, Blake was sitting on a bench in Fountain Court, only a minute’s walk from Ricard’s office.
The impromptu meeting wasn’t the only appointment he had arranged for the morning. Rosalind had playfully reminded him of his commitment to take her out. She had also dropped into conversation that most of her clothes were back in California. Blake had taken the hint and tentatively agreed to not only fund but also act as bag carrier for a brother-and-sister shopping trip. However, with the introduction of a new appointment into the morning’s schedule, Blake had called Rosalind to suggest that they postpone their trip for another day. Rosalind had insisted, saying something about how an agreement was an agreement and that he wasn’t going to wiggle out of theirs so easily.
It was settled that they would meet at Fountain Court, one of the picturesque squares in the Middle Temple and go together to Ricard’s office. He would have his meeting and she would stay in the reception until his business was concluded. They would then have lunch, and the afternoon would be dedicated to shopping. As soon as he had hung up the phone, he knew it was a mistake. She was bound to be late.
A gentle gust of wind rustled the leaves on the trees, as Blake checked his watch for the second time in less than a minute. Rosalind was already twenty minutes late. Tucked away from the hustle and bustle of the city, the peaceful courtyard oasis of Fountain Court was one of Blake’s favourite places to sit and think. Located in the centre of the Middle Temple, the small paved quadrangle was surrounded by four elegant wrought iron benches. Sitting alone, Blake had a good view of the alleyways leading in and out of the courtyard.
A small fountain had stood in the middle of the courtyard for around three hundred years, but the surrounding gardens had a much older history, possibly dating back to the late twelfth century, when the Knights Templar established themselves in the area. Blake looked over to Middle Temple Hall standing at the edge of the court. He remembered that Shakespeare along with his Chamberlain’s Men gave their first recorded performance of Twelfth Night there in 1602.
He scanned both directions with annoyance and felt relief at the sight of Rosalind turning the corner. She was taking short, sharp drags from a cigarette and instantly registered the annoyance in Blake’s face.
‘Really?’ said Blake.
Pouting around her cigarette, Rosalind shrugged and blew out smoke from her nostrils.
‘Don’t be mad,’ she said dismissively. ‘I had stuff to do.’
After taking a final drag on her cigarette, she let it fall to the ground and killed it with the heel of her boot.
Blake led the way through the maze of buildings and alleyways of the Middle Temple. As they tossed words back and forth, Blake’s temples slowly unknitted themselves. By the time they reached Ricard’s office, they were laughing. They checked in with the receptionist and took a seat next to a beautiful oil painting of the London skyline.
At that moment, Angelo Ricard appeared. As usual, he looked the picture of a successful executive. He was stylishly dressed in a blue suit, topped off with a coordinated pocket-handkerchief that stood crisply to attention in his jacket pocket.
‘Good morning, Dr Blake,’ said Ricard, glancing at his ultra-thin Swiss watch.
‘Sorry we’re late,’ said Blake.
‘We?’
Ricard looked over to the woman sitting next to Blake.
‘Do I detect a family resemblance?’ asked Ricard.
‘He’s my brother,’ said Rosalind, getting to her feet. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce us?’
For the briefest of seconds, Blake felt a flush of embarrassment heat his cheeks.
‘Angelo Ricard, this is my sister Rosalind Blake.’
‘Charmed to meet you,’ said Ricard, reaching out for Rosalind’s hand.
‘Don’t keep my brother long,’ she said. ‘He’s got a party dress to buy me.’
Blake forced a smile. His sister always talked too much.
‘I’ll do my best,’ said Ricard. ‘Dr Blake, we need to use our time judiciously. Our late start means that time is pressing, I’m afraid. I have an important business appointment in less than half an hour. If you’ll excuse us, Rosalind, I’ll get my PA to look after you with some refreshment.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Rosalind, nodding her approval and smiling.
On entering Ricard’s office, Blake was first struck by the piles of paperwork spread out over his expansive desk.
‘The office has a lot on at the moment,’ said Ricard, placing a cup of steaming hot coffee on a small corner of the desk in front of Blake. ‘So how can I help you?’ Ricard lowered himself into his seat. ‘Have you found Enoch Hart?’
‘No,’ said Blake. An earnest look swept over his face. ‘But I think I understand the pattern of the murders and I want to check my theory with you. You probably know more about these churches than anyone.’
‘Whatever I can do. You mentioned a pattern?’ said Ricard.
Blake got up and spent the next five minutes sketching out the alignment of the Hawksmoor churches on a piece of paper next to Ricard and talking through his hypothesis.
‘You see, if the Minories is the centre of the cross, that leaves St Mary’s as the site of the final murder.’
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Ricard said nothing in response.
‘It will take place on the last blood moon in the tetrad. And that’s only in a matter of days, unless we can stop it.’ Blake returned to his chair and picked up his cup from the table. As he savoured a sip of coffee, he eyed the wording stamped onto the cover of a file on Ricard’s desk. Returning his cup to the table, Blake read the title more closely.
London Underground
Architectural Drawings
Bank Station
‘Interesting theory,’ Ricard said, as he tapped out a constellation of dots onto Blake’s sketch with the tip of his pen.
‘What do you think?’
‘If you assume the Minories is somehow connected to this, then I guess you can make out a cross pattern with St Mary Woolnoth being the final point.’ He clicked down on the end of the pen with his thumb. ‘So you know the time and the place; all you need to do is catch Hart.’
‘It might not be Hart we’re after,’ said Blake.
Ricard looked intently at the man sitting on the other side of the desk. ‘Not Hart? What does that mean?’
‘I’m sorry, I’m not at liberty to tell you any more,’ said Blake. ‘Let’s just say, some new information has come to light which might make us re-examine our original assumptions.’
‘What information?’ pressed Ricard.
‘I apologise, Mr Ricard, but I can’t say any more.’
A brief flash of annoyance flashed across Ricard’s face. ‘I see,’ said Ricard, straightening out his watch on his wrist. ‘I’m sorry too, my next appointment is about to arrive. If I think of anything else, I’ll be sure to phone you.’
Ricard watched as Blake got to his feet. Politely, he ushered his guest out of his office and side by side the two men returned to the foyer area.
They found Rosalind deep in conversation with the receptionist, who quickly trailed off her conversation upon seeing her boss’s return.
The Devil’s Architect: Book Two of the Dark Horizon Trilogy Page 18
