by George Mann
She thought back to the days of her own youth, playfully dashing about with Peter and the others, splashing in the stream, scrambling up trees. She wondered what might have happened if they’d faced the same situation as George Baker, how they might have behaved. She and Peter were lucky – they’d been happy, and they were happy now. All that stuff with Andrew, with the job in London, everything, really – it paled in comparison to what George Baker had been through, and what he’d done to the people whose lives he’d cut short.
Peter found it hard to understand how she felt pity for the man, but it wasn’t about condoning, or even trying to understand what he’d done. It was about recognising the horrors he’d lived through as a young boy, and seeing how those events had shaped him.
It hadn’t taken much prompting to get him to open up during questioning, by all accounts, and he’d outlined the whole story in exquisite detail – how Patricia and James Graves had cornered him in his room and threatened him with the same fate as Thomas if he didn’t change his story, and the years of psychological torment that followed.
It was no wonder, then, that he had retreated into a fantasy world, basing his stories on some obscure local myths, searching for ways to forget, to be closer to the only real friend he’d ever had.
He’d made regular pilgrimages up here, to their ‘sacred tree’, visiting Thomas, promising that one day they’d be together again.
The SOCOs had been and gone, and Thomas’s bones had been recovered and taken away for reburial. She’d asked Peter to bring her up here all the same, to get a sense of what had happened, what it had all been about. She felt she needed that, after everything she’d seen. She needed an end to her story. One that she could write up, certainly, but more than that – a personal one, too. A moment of closure.
She was still struggling to come to terms with everything – the shift the entire episode had caused in her worldview. She’d seen what Miller had done to Millicent Brown, the way he’d somehow managed to control her, to puppet her, to will her to do herself harm. She’d hoped for the police to find a rational explanation for how he’d done it, but the SOCOs had found no evidence of drugs, or hypnotism, or any other means by which he might have influenced those three victims, except, perhaps, for a book of scrawled rituals, which he claimed to have pieced together from ancient texts. She’d begun to face the realisation that she was going to have to accept it at face value – that Miller had used an ancient ritual to carry out those horrific attacks.
Peter had visited his house after the arrest. They’d found all the evidence they’d needed to prosecute him for the ritual murders of Geoffrey Altman, Lucy Adams, Rose Macauley and Michael Williams – the means by which he’d made the costumes, the tools he’d used, receipts for the nails he’d driven through Michael Williams’s hands, and the ligature he’d wrapped around Rose’s throat to throttle her.
But they’d also found a gilt-framed mirror, and a diary detailing the precise routines of Patricia Graves, Rebecca Williams and Millicent Brown. He’d clearly been stalking them all for some time, watching, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
He’d freely admitted to all of the murders, but despite pressure from his solicitor and the police, he was still maintaining he’d used the mirror ritual to effect the deaths of Patricia Graves and Rebecca Williams, and was claiming responsibility for the attempted murder of Millicent Brown, despite the fact the police hadn’t charged him with it.
The police – Peter had explained – were convinced he had killed Patricia and Rebecca, but maintained that he had done it in person, and had somehow managed to stage it in such a way that he could claim his wild tales of ritual magic were true – an act of exquisite showmanship, executed by a master. He always had seemed theatrical.
Up ahead, the trees had begun to thin around the edges of a natural copse. She pushed her way through spindly branches, emerging into the small glade. Pale sunlight slanted through the overhead branches, dappling the compacted dirt beneath their boots.
The ‘sacred tree’ was just how Peter had described it. It formed the shape of an upturned palm, the fingers questing for the sky. She imagined the children galumphing about, scrabbling up the branches, digging in the mud. Rebecca, Thomas and George, gleefully misspending their youth, bruising their knees and scraping their elbows as they forged new adventures together.
Together, they silently approached the tree.
The hollow was small, and formed from a gnarly misshapen root. Miller had long ago exhumed the corpse of his childhood friend, and had moved him here, beneath the tree itself, in a hiding place they’d used as children for passing notes, or secreting catapults and other precious childhood treasures.
“This is where they found him?” said Elspeth.
Peter nodded. “Not a bad resting place, really, if you think about it.”
“You’re right. It’s peaceful up here,” said Elspeth. She turned on the spot, taking it all in. “What do you really think?” she said.
“About what?”
“You know what. About the magic.”
“Ellie, I’m a police officer. I’m a rationalist.”
She pulled a face. “That’s not an answer.”
“I know. But look at it this way. The first whisper of ‘magic’ in the official case and it falls apart. It could never stand up in court.”
“I didn’t ask about court. Or about your professional opinion. I asked about you.” She prodded him in the chest with the tip of her index finger.
He frowned. “I… I don’t know. It’s not that I don’t believe you. I do. I know that’s what you think you saw…”
“It’s what I did see. Believe me, I’m not wild about the idea either. It’s terrifying to think that there are people out there that can do things like that. But it was real. I know it was. And I’m not going to stop digging until I know more about it.”
Peter sighed dramatically. “Ever the journalist.”
She laughed. “Thank you.”
“What for?”
“For being here. For being a friend. For being one of the good guys.”
Peter smiled. “Now you’re just talking rubbish,” he said. He put out his hand, and she took it. “Come on. You’ve got work to do. Those applications aren’t going to write themselves.”
Elspeth rolled her eyes in mock defeat. “Okay, okay. You’re as bad as Mum. Home, then, so I can be chained to my desk.”
Peter laughed. “Don’t forget – you’re the one who started all this.”
Elspeth sighed. “I suppose I am, aren’t I?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Meredith was waiting for her at the bar. When she saw Elspeth coming, she beckoned her over, grinning, and waved at the barman. “Hang on, there’s a latecomer. What’ll it be?”
“Oh, a gin and tonic, please,” said Elspeth, squeezing in beside her.
“Make it a large one,” added Meredith. She beamed at Elspeth while the barman clinked ice cubes into a glass. It was busy tonight, and the after-work crowd was still in the process of giving way to the students and more serious night-time drinkers. Elspeth still hadn’t decided which camp Meredith belonged to. Probably the latter.
Evidently, The Old Dun Cow was a typical haunt of the gang from the Heighton Observer, who had taken up residence in the far corner by the jukebox, dragging three tables together and surrounding them with a mismatched collection of chairs.
Tim was standing at the jukebox now, feeding in twenty-pence coins. It was an old-fashioned affair, filled with vinyl singles from the eighties. The Jam’s ‘The Eton Rifles’ had been playing as she walked in, but now it had rolled over to The Cure’s ‘The Lovecats’. Elspeth felt right at home.
She realised Meredith was talking. “Sorry?”
“I said: have you decided if you’re sticking around yet, or what?”
“Why?”
“Well, I’ve got a problem now, you see.” Meredith pulled a ‘you’re not going to like this’ expression �
�� the one Elspeth had seen so many times before, on the faces of so many different editors. Her heart sank. “After publishing your story, people are going to be expecting something a bit different from the Heighton Observer. We’ve spent so long running local interest pieces that we’ve forgotten what serious journalism looks like. And now there’s this expectation, and you’re the only person I know around here who’s cut out for it.”
Elspeth frowned. “So…?”
“So you see my problem,” said Meredith, passing over her drink. “I couldn’t possibly let you go, even if I wanted to. I’m going to have to chain you to a desk and keep you writing. I might even look at increasing your rate. You got a problem with that?”
Elspeth laughed. “No problem at all.”
“Good. That’s settled, then.” She grabbed her vodka. “Come on, the others are waiting. You can carry Caroline’s cider.”
They joined the others by the jukebox. Copies of that week’s edition were laid out on the tables, now soaked through with slopped beer. Meredith had dedicated the first twelve pages to Elspeth’s large retrospective feature on the Carrion King case. Dorothy had already framed the front page.
“I think it’s time for a toast,” said Meredith. “To the newest member of the team, and to a damn fine job, too.” They raised their glasses and bellowed their cheers, much to the annoyance of the couple at the nearest table.
“And to Rose,” said Elspeth. A murmur of appreciation went around the small group.
“So, what’s the next big exposé going to be?” asked Richard, a tall, thin man with a beard, whom everyone in the office called Dick.
She shrugged. “I guess it depends on the leads. At the moment, I’ve got nothing.”
“I doubt it’ll be too long, around these parts,” said Caroline, one of the layout team. “And besides, I get the feeling it might be a romance story, about a strapping ginger copper and his childhood sweetheart.”
Elspeth felt a hand on her shoulder, and turned to see Peter standing behind her, grinning. She glanced at Caroline and pulled a face, causing the other woman to hoot with laughter.
She turned back to Peter. “Glad you could make it.”
“Drink?”
“I’m okay, actually.” She sipped her gin. “Look, give me a couple of minutes and we can get out of here if you like? Go somewhere a bit quieter?”
“Sounds perfect. I’ll wait for you outside.” He slipped away into the crowd.
“I do hope you two are going to get on with it,” said Caroline, when he’d gone. “I could cut the sexual tension with a knife.”
“It’s not like that,” said Elspeth. “We’re old friends. We’ve been through a lot together, that’s all.”
“Mmmm hmmm.”
Elspeth shook her head. It was useless trying to argue.
She downed her drink, and placed the empty glass on the table. Meredith put a hand on her arm. “Go on, you get off. Don’t worry about this lot. Go and have a nice time with your… friend.”
Elspeth groaned. “Thanks, Meredith.”
“We’ll see you soon, okay?”
“Absolutely.”
Outside, the evening was cool and clear.
“You seem to have your feet well and truly under the table there, now,” said Peter, as they crossed the road and followed the path down to the marketplace.
“I suppose I do. They’re a good bunch. Meredith’s asked me to write some more pieces for them. It’ll tide me over while I look for something more permanent.”
“You really proved yourself with your coverage of the Carrion King case, didn’t you?”
“Well, a lot of that’s down to you. I really do owe you one.”
“Don’t mention it,” he said.
“So, since you’ve made such an impression on the readers of the Heighton Observer, do you think that means you’ll stick around for a bit?” She couldn’t help but notice the hopeful tone in his voice, and it made her think of Caroline, and what she’d said in the pub. Sooner or later she was going to have to face up to everything she’d left behind in London, to Andrew, but knowing that Peter was here… it made it all seem so much more achievable.
“I reckon so. I’ve already started looking for a place of my own.”
“That’s good news,” said Peter. “Really good news. Won’t your mum be upset, though? She seems to like having you around.”
“She’ll be fine,” said Elspeth. “And I’ll still be here. But I need a bit more space of my own, and I’m sure she wants her house back.”
Peter laughed. “So, do you want to get some food? We are celebrating, after all.” Elspeth stopped to sit down and he sat beside her and nudged her playfully with his elbow. “We could try out that new Mexican place, if you fancy it? Or somewhere a bit more upmarket?”
“You know what I really fancy?”
“What?”
“A dirty kebab,” she said. “With lots of garlic sauce.”
“God, you really are the perfect woman. Next thing I know you’ll be challenging me to a game on the Xbox.”
“Bring it. Game on. I’m pretty mean with one of those remote paddle stick things.”
He burst out laughing. “Yeah, alright.”
“So, where can we get a really greasy kebab? One that we’re going to regret in the morning.”
He leapt up and took her hand, pulling her to her feet. “Come on. I know a place.”
They ambled along, side by side, neither one of them feeling the need to fill the silence. Cars purred past, headlamps glinting, and a cool breeze ruffled her hair. For the first time in a long while, she felt truly alive. Despite everything, despite the horrors of the last couple of weeks, she was starting to believe that she might, at last, be starting to feel happy again.
She looped her arm through Peter’s, and together, they walked off into the night.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This one’s been germinating for a long time, and I have a whole bunch of people to thank for their help and support. First and foremost my family, who cheerfully put up with long days being driven around rainy Oxfordshire scouting locations for the book, and then gave me the space and time to write it while I ignored pretty much everything else that was going on around me.
Cavan Scott was his usual, steadfast self, pushing me on and encouraging me whenever I hit a wall. Thanks must go to my editors Cath Trechman, Miranda Jewess and Cat Camacho, who have supported the book since the very first time I mooted the idea, and likewise my agent Jane Willis, and publishers Nick Landau and Vivian Cheung. There are too many others to name, but you know who you are, and I hope you also know that I appreciate it.
Elspeth listens to a lot of music in this book, and all the artists are personal favourites of mine. The soundtrack of the book is the soundtrack of the writing of the book, the playlist I had on in the background while I plotted all the crucial scenes. If there are any bands or artists mentioned that you’ve never listened to, I urge you to give them a try.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
George Mann was born in Darlington and has written numerous books, short stories, novellas and original audio scripts. The Affinity Bridge, the first novel in his Newbury & Hobbes Victorian fantasy series, was published in 2008. Other titles in the series include The Osiris Ritual, The Executioner’s Heart, The Immorality Engine, and The Casebook of Newbury & Hobbes.
His other novels include Ghosts of Manhattan, Ghosts of War, Ghosts of Karnak and the upcoming Ghosts of Empire, mystery novels about a vigilante set against the backdrop of a post-steampunk 1920s New York, as well as an original Doctor Who novel, Paradox Lost, featuring the Eleventh Doctor alongside his companions, Amy and Rory.
He has edited a number of anthologies, including Encounters of Sherlock Holmes, Further Encounters of Sherlock Holmes, Associates of Sherlock Holmes and the forthcoming Further Associates of Sherlock Holmes, The Solaris Book of New Science Fiction and The Solaris Book of New Fantasy, and has written two Sherlock Holmes novels for Titan
Books: Sherlock Holmes: The Will of the Dead and Sherlock Holmes: The Spirit Box.
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