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

by Duncan Simpson

  Things were getting interesting, she thought to herself, as Ricard placed the backpack on the floor and sat next to her on the sofa.

  ‘Patience, patience. All in good time,’ he said, looking amused with himself.

  ‘And how do you want to kill the time?’ she said moving closer and touching his hand.

  ‘Thought we could have a little fun,’ he said, slowly shaking the purse in front of her eyes and withdrawing his hand.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  He unzipped the black leather purse and opened it up. A knot clenched in Rosalind’s throat when she saw the familiar outline of hypodermic syringes. She sat in silence, biting at her lips, staring at the needles. After a pause, she nodded to Ricard who leaned forward and tied a rubber tourniquet around her arm. When he was finished he placed a syringe into her hand.

  ‘Enjoy the ride,’ he whispered into her ear.

  Rosalind found a vein in her forearm and felt the sharp scratch of the needle enter her skin. Ricard released the tourniquet and she pushed the plunger home. She felt the cool liquid pass into her bloodstream and her body greeted the drug like an old friend. Rosalind grabbed out for Ricard’s shoulder and then her head snapped back. An explosion of white light had just filled her vision. Within seconds she was staring up to the ceiling with a blank, expressionless face.

  A smile curled on his lips. ‘You scrawny bitch,’ he said fiercely, with a cruel glint in his eye. He checked his watch and resisted the temptation of opening the backpack.

  Chapter 55

  Angelo Ricard’s exclusive Belgravia residence was teaming with police officers and forensic specialists. Blake straightened his back against the wall, as two uniformed police officers began to squeeze past him in the corridor. Both officers were carrying heavy-duty transparent bags containing a cache of computer equipment, laptops, and hard drives.

  ‘Where’s Ricard’s office?’ asked Blake to the trailing officer, who stopped, repositioned his grip on the bag, and nodded down the corridor.

  Blake thanked him with his eyes and hurried on along the passageway into the office. Like everything else about Ricard’s house, it was on an impressive scale, the footprint of the room probably larger than the entire ground floor of Blake’s own house. For a moment, his eyes took in the office and its high ceilings, thick carpets and ornate sash-style windows overlooking a private courtyard.

  Recognising the plain-clothes detective sitting at Ricard’s expansive desk as a member of DCI Milton’s special response unit, he headed over to the man.

  ‘Just been told, looks like Lambton has won by a landslide,’ said the detective, reaching his hand out towards Blake’s.

  ‘Really?’ said Blake, in a non-committal way.

  ‘They’ve just announced the results outside the Bank of England. Let’s hope he’s going to be better than the last mayor,’ he said with a frown. ‘Lambton’s going to be leading a victory march from the Bank of England to the new hospital that’s just opened up in the Minories. Nice touch, I thought. It’s about time a mayor focused on looking after the sick instead of sucking up to those parasite bankers, don’t you think?’

  Blake didn’t answer, the mention of the Minories jarring in his mind.

  ‘The city’s going to be jam-packed for the next couple of hours,’ said the detective. ‘Me and the boys are going for a drink after we finish up here to miss the crowds, if you’re interested?’

  ‘Maybe another time,’ said Blake, his focus settling onto the objects laid out on the table.

  The detective observed Blake’s interest. ‘From the safe,’ said the man as he pointed to the far wall. Blake’s eyes were initially drawn to the oil painting leaning up against the wall, but they quickly moved upwards to the wall safe some four foot above the painting. Its door was ajar, and the space inside was completely empty.

  ‘So, what have we got here?’ asked Blake, shouldering forward to take a look.

  ‘Not really sure,’ said the detective. ‘The DCI suggested we wait until you got here. The boss thought you might be able to shed some light on them.’

  He recognised the first of the three objects laid out on the table. They were the same architectural plans of Bank Tube Station that he had spotted on Ricard’s desk in his office in the Middle Temple. The drawings were detailed blueprints of the elevators and stairwells running through the centre of the tube station. A single feature had been circled in red pen in the top left-hand corner of the plan. He craned forward to get a better view. The shape looked like a door. Inset above it were several words printed in small faded typeface: ‘To St Mary Woolnoth’. An arrow above the words directed the eye off the page, presumably in the direction of the church. Blake’s eyebrows pulled together in thought.

  ‘You might find this of interest,’ said the detective, moving the map to one side. He pulled a flat wooden presentation box closer to the edge of the table. Fashioned out of maple wood, the box had been made by a master craftsman. Adorning its lid and expertly executed in inlaid walnut and rosewood veneers was the design of a pyramid.

  Blake’s eyes motioned for the detective to open it, which he did carefully.

  ‘I bet they’re worth a pretty packet? What are they, Roman?’

  ‘Something like that,’ said Blake, picking up one of the Tyrian shekels from its indented position holder within the case’s blue felt interior.

  ‘What do you think happened to the rest of them?’ mused the detective.

  The box had been designed to hold three rows of ten coins, thirty positions in all. Over half of the positions were vacant. Blake’s thoughts turned cold at the notion of one of these coins being put under Alina’s skin. He closed the box without answering the detective’s question.

  ‘Was this in the safe?’ asked Blake, picking up a leather-bound notebook from the table.

  ‘Yep. Looks like an old diary,’ said the detective. ‘It’s got a title page. Says it belonged to a Nicholas Hawksmoor.’

  The detective’s words nearly knocked Blake off balance.

  ‘Hawksmoor?’ said Blake, the strength leaving his voice.

  ‘That’s right. It says it, just inside the front cover.’

  Blake opened the book and read out the words, handwritten in faded copperplate lettering.

  The Diary of Nicholas Hawksmoor.

  A knot formed in his throat as he skim-read the yellowing sheets. Paging to the end, his attention was drawn to the final entry.

  * * *

  Diary Entry of Nicholas Hawksmoor

  15th May 1733

  Over fifty years of sand has passed in the hour glass since I first found the book in Mr Cooper’s shop. Now my fingers are so disjointed, that I cannot steadily hold a pen, and my breaking health reminds me how ill I can afford to be slow in the completion of my commission. Since the binding of my soul to the Dark Lord’s, I have never slackened in my diligence to perform my endeavours. I have prepared the road for His coming. On that day, the world will shake with His power.

  Today the steeple of the church of St John Horsleydown was topped with my glorious weathervane. Those lank-jawed churchmen of the parish think that the vane depicts a flaming comet; little do they know the true representation of my work. The blazing star portrays the Dark Lord’s descent from the heavens, cast out by God Himself millennia ago. The Druids, those masters of pagan knowledge, knew the location of His fall and where His dark power had entered the ground. At this place, known today as ‘The Minories’ after the great Abbey of the Minoresses that once stood there, they built a great circle of unhewn stones. This circle was imbued with powerful white magic to imprison the Dark Lord’s power within the ground.

  Then came the Romans, first landing on these shores in AD 43 and ruling for the next 400 years. Under the orders of Constantine the Great, the circle was destroyed and at its centre was erected an imperial mausoleum. This was indeed the great monument that I discovered over fifty years ago.

  To symbolise Rome’s dominance over the Dr
uids, a magnificent statue was made to adorn the mausoleum. The carved stone statue portrayed a powerful imperial eagle with a writhing serpent in its beak. The serpent denoting any power, temporal or spiritual, that dared to stand in opposition to Roman authority. Such was its potency that Constantine’s mother, Helena, sent cursed artefacts from the Holy Land to be placed in the mausoleum in order to banish them from the sacred soil of Jerusalem, including the thirty pieces of silver.

  Constantine couldn’t have realised that in destroying the magic ring of stones built by the Druids, he would allow my master’s agents to be released from their captivity to do His bidding. These demons are everywhere; I can see them with my eyes and hear their scheming with my ears. They enter the weak and take possession of their faculties to carry out His dark purposes.

  But I have been chosen to fulfil a greater calling. To build the very instrument to allow for His return. Four black churches, built in a perfect square alignment around the Minories, the precise location of His falling from the heavens. The Druids built a circle of white magic to keep my master caged; I have built a square of black magic to release Him from His prison. It was written in the book that a time will come when the alignment of the stars, planets and moon will match the dark geometry of my churches. Four blood moons, four black churches and four human blood sacrifices to bind them together in the blackest of magic. This is the key to unlock the prison chains of His captivity, and I will be exulted high above His lieutenants for bringing it to pass.

  * * *

  Blake’s mind swirled. He had been right all along; the Hawksmoor churches were built according to a diabolical scheme. What’s more Ricard was killing according to details set out in Hawksmoor’s diary.

  Just then Blake’s phone buzzed. Still deep in thought, he answered it and recognised Rosalind’s faint voice. He withdrew the phone from his ear and gave the detective a ‘give me a minute’ gesture.

  ‘Roz, can you speak up? There’s a lot of noise in the background.’

  ‘Vincent, it’s Rosalind, your sister,’ her voice sounded slurred and detached.

  ‘I know it’s you. Is everything okay? Where are you?’

  ‘Going to get my medicine soon. Then everything is going to be okay,’ said Rosalind in a scrambled whisper.

  ‘Speak up, Roz, I can barely hear you,’ said Blake, raising his voice.

  ‘Too many people here,’ said Rosalind. ‘Wanted to let you know.’

  ‘What did you want me to know?’ said Blake. A pang of anxiety rose in stomach.

  ‘I’m going on a trip.’

  ‘Have you taken something? Rosalind, listen to me. Have you taken something?’ Blake gripped the phone hard.

  ‘It’s okay, Angelo is getting me my medicine and then we are going on a trip together.’

  Blake’s eyes snapped shut as if he were recoiling from a blow.

  ‘Angelo? Angelo Ricard?’ he said, his breath catching audibly in his throat.

  ‘Yes, Angelo Ricard.’ Rosalind’s voice had almost fallen into a whisper.

  A sickening feeling invaded Blake.

  ‘Rosalind, listen to me. It’s really important. Ricard is a very dangerous man. He kills women. Rosalind, do you understand me? You need to get to the nearest police station. Where are you now?’

  Straining to hear above the ambient noise on the line, Blake’s face suddenly blanched as he heard a public address announcement.

  ‘Because of the large number of passengers travelling through Bank Station this evening, please allow extra time for your journey.’

  Then a sharp grating sound burst through the phone’s speaker and the line went dead. Blake quickly redialled Rosalind’s number and waited. The line went dead again. No ringing, no answerphone. He dialled again, this time with his heart pounding in his throat. Nothing.

  ‘Shit,’ he said sharply, his head dropping into his hands. Looking to the floor, he saw something resting against the table leg, its distinctive blue colour standing out from the cream carpet. He leant down and picked it up. It was a silver ring mounted with a turquoise stone. Blake’s heart leapt into his mouth. It was Rosalind’s; her American boyfriend had given it to her. He immediately remembered what the curator of the Scotland Yard museum had said: occult killings often required the removal of jewellery to prevent metal from interfering with the dark energies called upon during the ritual. Ricard’s previous victims had all been stripped of their jewellery.

  ‘Fuck!’

  Blake turned around to the detective, who was staring at him with a concerned frown.

  ‘Listen to me. Phone DCI Milton. Tell him that Ricard has got my sister and they are heading his way.’

  Seconds later, Blake was skidding out of the room with the architectural plans of Bank Tube Station in his hands.

  Chapter 56

  Rosalind ducked her head under the doorway and followed Ricard out of the narrow passage. She felt confused as her eyes adjusted to the pale light of her surroundings. Their way forward appeared blocked by a wall of tall metal pillars. Stumbling, Rosalind reached out to steady herself against the line of cold metal columns in front of them, her senses dulled by the cocktail of narcotics flowing through her blood stream.

  ‘We’ve come out at the back of the church organ,’ whispered Ricard, readjusting the backpack on his shoulder.

  ‘Ahhh. These are the organ pipes, right? You always take your girlfriends to places like this?’ She blew out a breath. ‘When do I get my medicine?’

  ‘In a second. Remember, keep your voice down. We shouldn’t really be in here.’ Ricard’s face displayed annoyance.

  ‘Okey dokey,’ she whispered loudly, raising a finger to her pursed lips.

  ‘This way.’ He motioned her to a door at the side.

  After Rosalind took a few shaky steps towards the door, Ricard took her elbow and steered her forwards.

  Stepping through, Rosalind looked up at the lofty interior of St Mary Woolnoth. Shafts of ghostly moonlight shone down from the arched lantern windows cutting a line high up along one of the walls. Something about the interior dimensions of the space further disoriented her. She reached out towards the hefty wooden pulpit by her side and glanced around. Her gaze slowly lowered. The floor space was occupied by rows of pews all facing an altar at the back of the church. The altar was topped by a gilded canopy supported by two twisted wooden columns.

  ‘Okay, now we’re here. What was it you wanted to show me?’ Her whispered tone was becoming impatient.

  Taking her by the hand, Ricard led Rosalind over to the altar. He carefully placed his backpack on the richly decorated altar cloth and opened it. After rummaging for a moment, he picked out two objects and arranged them on the altar. Rosalind’s eyes suddenly came alive at the sight of the fully loaded syringe and a length of rubber tubing next to the bag.

  ‘Before I show you what we have come here to see, can I offer you some refreshment?’ he said through a lop-sided grin. ‘You sit up here,’ he said, tapping the altar with the palm of his hand. Rosalind didn’t need any more encouragement, and in a moment she was sitting on the altar with her legs swinging in anticipation. Soon the rubber tube was being tied tightly around her arm. With perfectly steady hands, Ricard directed the needle into a well-worn vein in Rosalind’s forearm. As he released the tourniquet and squeezed the plunger, a dark slow smile crept up his face.

  She let out a shudder as the hit of pure heroin surged in her bloodstream and took several shaky breaths as her body recoiled from the intensity of the rush. Within seconds, the strength had run out of her body and she slumped backwards against the rear wall. Whilst the world was blinking in and out of her vision, she thought she could see a knife twist before her eyes. She tried to struggle, but moments later, its long pointed outline had melted into the darkness of her unconscious. As Rosalind’s eyes turned distant, a strong gust of wind rattled the large wooden entrance doors to the church. A storm was coming.

  Chapter 57

  The taxi driver p
ut down his radio and shouted over his shoulder to Blake.

  ‘Sorry mate, just confirmed it with the control room, this is as far as I can take you. It’s the mayoral election. It looks like half of London is going to be out marching tonight. Don’t blame them though, it’s about time we had someone sticking up for Joe Public.’

  Blake grabbed the plans of Bank Tube Station and tossed the driver forty pounds through the hole in the taxi’s reinforced glass partition.

  ‘Keep the change,’ said Blake, already pushing down the door handle.

  ‘You sure? Cheers mate. Holborn station is just there, up on right,’ he said, pointing towards the illuminated Underground sign in the distance.

  Blake hit the ground running, buffeted by the strong wind blowing down Kingsway. Rosalind’s phone had gone dead, and Ricard was with her. The thought of the two of them together kept stabbing at his heart like a spike. Soon Blake’s progress towards the station had slowed to a crawl. The pavements were thick with people heading to join the march. He tried to push against the tidal drag of the herd moving in the opposite direction. He ploughed onwards, struggling to gain ground towards the entrance to Holborn Tube Station. His head craned up above the throng and towards the road. Seeing the slow-moving traffic, he changed directions, this time setting off at right angles towards the road. Once free, he started to thread his way through the vehicles. Ignoring the horns of complaint, he sprinted his way along the central reservation of the main road.

  Close to the station entrance, he hopped back onto the pavement and into the stream of people coming this way and that around the station. Soon he was through the ticket barrier, and seconds later he stepped onto the long escalator heading down to the train platforms deep underground. He tried to hustle his way past the people on the top of the escalator, but they wouldn’t move. As he stood there with his shirt pasted to his back, a message announced its arrival with a vibrating buzz in his pocket. He fished out the phone and scrolled through to the message. It was from Dr Desai.