by LJ Ross
“But?”
“The damage to the brain tissue and to the entrance and exit wounds is much more widespread than usual. The diameter of tissue damage is perhaps twenty times the size of the lead ball. Factor in the black powder which was found on his skin and it suggests that we are looking for a model not in general circulation.”
“Something rare, you mean?”
“I would say so.”
“What about signs of restraint? Was he tied down, or immobilised?”
“I’m waiting for the toxicology report to come back,” Pinter replied. “There could have been something swimming around his system but on the face of it, no, there was no sign that he was restrained. No friction burns on the wrists, no pressure marks or bruising elsewhere and I haven’t found any puncture wounds. There are some very minor burns on his face,” Pinter raised a bony finger to indicate the singed skin, almost invisible to the naked eye. “These might be consistent with an older weapon. Perhaps something with a spark?”
“OK,” MacKenzie moved to the next question, one that might be a game-changer for all of them. “Any indication that the wound was self-inflicted?”
Pinter looked between the two of them, his twinkling brown eyes savouring the moment to its fullest before answering.
“None whatsoever. I found traces of black, powdery residue on his face and neck, but there was no residue on his hands or forearms and we already know he was not found wearing gloves.” He paused, then reached for a clipboard. “There were small traces of some other waxy residue, which looks like glue of some kind. I’ve sent the samples for analysis.”
So, MacKenzie thought, that ruled out one possibility. Unfortunately, it did not assist their friend.
“But…”
She snapped to attention again as Pinter tacked on a final thought.
“There is one little thing which might have, ah, played on his mind, if you’ll pardon the pun. Our friend Bowers had a tumour the size of a quail’s egg nestling beside his medulla oblongata.”
* * *
An hour later, MacKenzie skirted around a large flowerbed whose wilting begonias spelled out the name ‘Fair View Nursing Home’ and headed directly for the entranceway to the squat, stone-clad building beyond. Lowerson was manning the desk back at CID, combing through the statements given by the pilgrims. Each had consented to their fingerprints being taken, as well as a swab, which did not suggest that any of their godly number had something to hide but you could never tell.
With that sombre thought, MacKenzie pressed the outside bell and stated her name, waiting for the electronic doors to buzz open. Stepping through them, she found herself in a foyer fashioned in the style of a suburban home from the late eighties or early nineties. Low-pile, mint green carpet covered the floor. An ornamental fireplace in stained pine provided a focal point to the room and, instead of a grate, there stood a large arrangement of dried flowers in a chunky vase. A carriage clock and a couple of porcelain animals rested on its mantel and a brass-framed Monet print hung above that.
A cheerful woman in grey slacks and a frilly white shirt greeted MacKenzie from behind an overloaded desk housing an old-model computer and grubby keyboard, numerous framed pictures of what MacKenzie assumed to be the woman’s children, a mug filled with an assortment of biros and, perhaps most disturbing, a calendar devoted entirely to hamsters in sunglasses and miniature bikinis.
“Hello! Welcome to Fair View. Are you here to visit a relative?”
MacKenzie took out her warrant card.
“I’ve been trying to reach Judith Bowers. I understand she’s a resident here?”
The woman inspected the warrant card before answering.
“Yes, Miss Bowers has been with us for a few months now. She had a nasty accident and hasn’t been the same since, poor lamb.”
“Oh? Was it a car accident?”
“No, no, she was attacked. They never found who did it. Terrible thing. And that’s where our taxes go, on so-called public services, when there’s people like me caring for the sick and the elderly and getting paid a pittance. Disgraceful—”
The woman broke off from what was clearly a well-rehearsed routine when she realised that she didn’t have the most receptive audience.
“Why do you need to see Judith?”
MacKenzie smiled politely. She had, of course, already looked into the circumstances that had brought Judith Bowers to Fair View Nursing Home. An assailant had beaten her to within an inch of her life and then left her for dead, on her way home from an evening at the cinema. Now, she required round-the-clock personal care at the age of forty-nine.
“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss those details just yet. Where can I find Miss Bowers?”
“Alright, if you want to be like that,” the receptionist sniffed. “She’s in Room 23, in the Rose Wing. On the right hand side, door code is 2552. Sign here,” she tapped an iridescent pink fingernail on the guest book and then returned to her online chatroom.
MacKenzie scrawled a signature in the book and cast her eye over the list of recent visitors, none of whom she recognised, then let herself into the secure Rose Wing. Upon entering, she became instantly aware of her own mortality. The men and women roamed the corridors around her like zombies, she thought, watching them shuffle vaguely in the direction of the security door she had just entered and, presumably, towards freedom. There was a lemony smell of detergent pervading the atmosphere, alongside the hint of a custard-based pudding wafting from the kitchens. Beneath that, she smelled old people.
MacKenzie tapped on the window to the nursing station and was met by a man with cropped grey hair and a tidy paunch beneath his uniform. His badge declared him to be the senior nurse in charge.
“Judith?” The man called Paul shook his head sadly and tried not to stare at the attractive policewoman with the serious green eyes. “I don’t know if you’ll have any joy there. She hasn’t had many good days, recently.”
“That’s a pity,” MacKenzie sympathised. “Can you tell me a little more about her condition?”
“I can’t discuss her medical details unless you’ve got the proper warrant, but no harm in saying that Judith is mostly unresponsive after what happened to her—she’s a selective mute and she’s blind in one eye. You can see that for yourself.”
MacKenzie clucked her tongue.
“Terrible thing,” she said. “They say she was attacked?”
“Aye,” Paul leaned against the doorframe, getting comfortable. “She came to us after a couple of months in hospital. Your mates still don’t seem to know much about what happened to her.”
MacKenzie smiled sadly. The detective in charge of Judith Bowers’ investigation had already written off any hope of finding a perpetrator and was looking forward to his summer holiday in Greece.
“Did her brother help her to move into Fair View?”
Paul scratched the top of his head and dislodged a small snowfall of dandruff, which settled on his rounded shoulders.
“Tall feller, tanned?”
“Could be.” MacKenzie fished out a pocket-sized photograph of Mark Bowers, one that had been taken by Anna and showed him looking healthy and happy on a windy beach.
The nurse peered at the photograph and nodded decisively.
“Aye, that was him. He signed the papers on the first day and hasn’t been back since, at least not that I’ve seen.”
MacKenzie affected a look of surprise.
“Perhaps he’s been busy,” she suggested.
The nurse snorted, meaningfully.
“Aye, they’re always busy,” he muttered, pushing away from the wall. “C’mon, I’ll take you along and you can see for yourself why he can’t be arsed to visit.”
MacKenzie didn’t bother to enlighten him that Mark Bowers was not in any fit state to visit anyone; it didn’t seem fair to interrupt the man’s righteous tirade.
Judith Bowers was sitting placidly in a navy blue wing chair facing the window of her room, whi
ch had been wallpapered in a cream print covered with tiny rosebuds. A small television set blared in the corner, which she was either unaware of, or deliberately ignored. Her dark hair was streaked with silver and had been cut into a short, manageable style, leaving much of her face bare. It was impossible not to notice the dislodged bones beneath the papery white skin.
“Miss Bowers?”
There was no reaction, but MacKenzie persevered.
“My name is Detective Inspector Denise MacKenzie. I’m from Northumbria CID.”
MacKenzie waited, but still no response. Sighing, she moved forward to perch on the edge of the windowsill. In the harsh light, she could see the myriad scars criss-crossing the woman’s face, inflicted by repeated blows from a blunt instrument. MacKenzie swallowed her pity and forced herself to look again. The woman could still hear and was known to talk when the mood struck her. Nobody had mentioned Judith Bowers having lost any of her mental faculties.
“Judith? I know that you have good days and bad days. If you aren’t feeling up to talking to me right now, I’ll understand, but it’s important that you listen to what I have to tell you.”
The woman blinked and then resumed her fixed, partially-sighted view of the courtyard garden outside her window.
“I’m sorry to tell you that your brother, Mark, was found dead late last night.”
Slowly, the woman’s head turned from the window, eyes clouded but still searching, darting this way and that. Her good eye came to rest on MacKenzie.
“Can I get you some water? Would you like me to call a nurse?”
Judith began to laugh. Rusty with disuse, her voice sang with mirth and a moment later the nurse stuck his head around the doorway.
“Is she alright? What happened?”
MacKenzie shrugged helplessly.
“I’ve just informed her that her brother is dead.”
They watched as the woman continued to cackle, tears rolling down her hollowed cheeks.
“Is this a normal reaction, for her?” MacKenzie queried, thinking that people handled grief in different ways. Severe shock could cause laughter, tears and all manner of hysterical behaviour.
The nurse shook his head firmly.
“I’ve never seen her like this. She barely speaks, nowadays. It’s…well, it’s amazing.”
“Yes,” MacKenzie agreed, watching Mark’s sister rejoice at the news of her brother’s death. “That’s one word for it.”
* * *
Ryan waited until Anna had taken herself off for a bath upstairs before he drew the little plastic-covered book out of his jacket pocket. He was not a fan of deliberate subterfuge and, ordinarily, he preferred to be up front with Anna in all things. However, he did not believe in heaping bad news onto an already brimming pile. She had recently seen enough grief to last a lifetime and he would not be the one to cause further upset, unless it was unavoidable. With that in mind, he resolved to make completely sure that his present suspicions were correct before burdening her with their weight.
He glanced upwards at the sound of water running and settled himself on the edge of the sofa, where he laid out some paper on the coffee table and drew on his nitrile gloves once again. Only then did he retrieve the gilt-edged copy of Paradise Lost from its transparent evidence bag and set it on the paper-covered surface.
Using the extreme edge of the book cover, he opened the first page.
On the inside cover, there was a list of eight names and dates, written in fountain pen ink in varying shades of intensity depending upon the date.
Ryan could feel his heart begin to thunder against his chest as he noted the most recent additions to the list:
Andrew David Taylor, 1984 – 1997
Steven Anthony Walker, 1997 – 2015
Mark Oliver Bowers, 2015 –
There were five more names written inside that little book, dating back to the late nineteenth century. A quick check told Ryan that the earliest date roughly corresponded with the print edition of the book and it didn’t take much for him to conclude that it had probably been purchased as a gift to the first man whose name was scrawled at the top of the list, dated 1877. It was not difficult to determine that the book had passed to each of the names listed on the inside cover, in date order.
Given the manner in which Bowers died, it was clear that nobody had been given an opportunity to update the list, nor to pass the book to a new owner.
There, in the quiet living room, Ryan knew that he had stumbled across an important piece of information. When he had first seen Bowers’ name amongst the others, he had felt a stab of anger. He had nourished the hope that his instincts had been wrong on this occasion; that he might never have to tell Anna that her beloved friend was not the man she had thought he was. Now, that hope died a quiet death and was replaced with the cold resolution that he must find who had become Bowers’ successor. Whose name should have been added to this seemingly innocuous list of men, amongst whom Anna’s father was named alongside a known serial killer?
Ryan heard footsteps upstairs, indicating that she had finished her bath. With economic movements, he slipped the book back inside its plastic bag and returned it to its hiding place.
He stood for a moment longer, staring at the outline against his jacket pocket and wondered whether somebody would be looking for it. If so, they probably knew by now that it was missing from Bowers’ shelf and might have come to their own conclusions about who had taken it.
* * *
The Circle was in full attendance later that night. Those from the island and the mainland met on consecrated ground to elect their new leader, a High Priest who would be their Master’s representative on earth.
More than fifty men and women stood in a circle around a large bonfire. They left their ordinary lives behind them, shedding jeans and jackets for long dark cloaks to swathe their naked skin. The most coveted cloak of all—a long robe of pure animal pelt—rested on the ground in front of the fire, awaiting a new owner. Nestled amongst its folds was a small, double-edged athame dagger with an ornate handle.
The faces were anonymous in the darkness, only shadowed masks lit up by the glare of the fire, but in daylight they belonged to well-known local businessmen and women, people who had risen in their professions with a little help from their friends. Among them, DCS Arthur Gregson stood, his bare feet curling into the grass. He watched as a red velvet bag made its way around the circle and, for once, he was not so eager to partake of the little seeds which would fuzzy his brain and mellow his conscience. There were others who took greedy handfuls, shoving the hallucinogenic drug into their mouths with gusto. It was all part of the fun.
Beside him, Jane Freeman stood tall and proud, her slim body just visible through the gap in her robe and her hair a pale shimmer behind the mask she wore to hide her face. He was an ordinary man and he admitted that, over the years, women had been a weakness. Still, he felt no stirrings of desire.
All he felt was fear, more potent and more penetrating than any desire he could ever have imagined.
Eventually, once the group was silent and sedated, he stepped forward.
“Brothers! Sisters!” he called out, and the Circle fell silent, but they did not kneel. That was a mark of respect afforded only to their leader and he had never been that.
“We gather here this evening to mourn the loss of our High Priest, and to call upon the Master to choose a successor.”
In truth, a successor had already been chosen. Gregson acted as Chief Whip, making sure that each member was prepared and ready to bend the knee to the woman who stood a little inside the circle, quivering in anticipation of the moment she would be called forward.
“Our Master rewards loyalty,” he continued, in a pleasing baritone which had fared him well over the years. “Though each of us is loyal, there can be few who have given so much in recent times as our sister, Jane.”
Freeman took a step further into the firelight and felt masked heads turn towards her.
�
��Our sister has been with us many years, recognising early on which side of the battle lines she belonged. There are few who can claim the same.”
There were murmurs of agreement and admiration.
“There have been disappointments these last few years, setbacks borne from poor leadership. There have been some who have forgotten the true reason for our circle. The Master grants us rewards, but he does not wish us to be distracted from our purpose,” Gregson said. “It is time for change, for a return to our true path. There is only one who can steer us towards it.”
He gestured to Freeman, who bridged the remaining distance. She looked down at the long animal pelt lying on the ground beside her feet. A simple cloak, she thought, but it could wield so much power.
Gregson raised his voice over the crackle of the bonfire.
“Do any amongst you contest the Master’s choice?”
The Circle remained silent and with a heavy heart Gregson lifted the long animal pelt and held it out to the woman beside him. Freeman shed her black cloak and kicked it away with one narrow foot, meaningless to her now that something better had presented itself. She accepted the pelt and enjoyed the feel of it against her skin. Around her, the Circle fell to the ground, compliant and ready to serve. Suddenly, she felt intoxicated; her head swam with endless possibilities and pleasures. The fur seemed to vibrate, as if it were a living thing once more, pulsating around her. She thought of all the men who had worn it over the years, all of whom had died. They deserved their fate, she thought. Fat-headed men who had grown pompous and arrogant. This time, the Circle would have a Priestess whose reign would be long and fruitful.
She raised the dagger above her head and sketched the shape of an inverted pentagram in the air, with deep, slashing strokes. Her voice rang out into the night and with the fire at her back, she became something ethereal.
Emperor Lucifer, master of all the rebel spirits,
We beg you to favour us in the call that we make to you.
O, Count Astarot!
Be favourable to us and make it so that this night you appear to us in human form.
