by Maynard Sims
“Yes,” Harry said. “I’d like that.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Pete Roberts is clean,” Gillian said.
“You amaze me,” Susan said.
“Not so much as an unpaid parking fine.”
“Well, I never had him in the frame for Kerry Green’s murder anyway. But I am surprised he doesn’t have a sheet. He seemed the type.”
“And Brian called in. Terry Butler’s done a runner. Didn’t show up for work this morning, and nobody seems to have any idea where he is.”
“Not even his girlfriend?”
“She’s at school today, so Brian hasn’t been able talk to her.”
“School? Jesus! Tell Brian to visit the school and speak to her teacher. We need to find Fin Clusky, and Butler may be our only lead.”
“But first we have to find him,” Gillian said.
“Yeah. Ironic, isn’t it? We have him sitting here at the station, and we send him home in a squad car. The gods aren’t smiling down on us at the moment.”
“When do they ever?” Gillian said.
The telephone rang on Susan’s desk.
“DI Tyler,” she said wearily.
“This is Deputy Commissioner Mackie, Detective Inspector. Would you mind explaining to me just what the hell you think you’re playing at?”
“I’m not sure I understand, sir.”
“Don’t you? Who do you work for, Tyler, the Met? Or Department 18?”
Oh shit, Susan thought. I really need this today.
Ruth Shaughnessy picked up the stick and threw it across the wasteland.
“Go on, boy. Fetch.”
Skipper, her three-year-old Jack Russell terrier, barked once and scooted off to retrieve it, tongue hanging from its mouth, stumpy tail wagging excitedly. Within seconds the dog had returned. It dropped the stick at her feet and looked up at her expectantly, waiting for her to throw it again. As Ruth bent to pick it up, she saw her husband, Liam, weaving his way along the path that led to the caravan. She guessed he’d either been to the pub or, more likely, been drinking with his mates, halfway out to sea on Clacton pier.
It was a usual occurrence. Liam and his pals, all unemployed, would meet on the pier with their cans of lager, and while away the evening until they were either drunk or moved on by the police. Today he was returning early—there were still the remnants of an early autumn sun in the sky. But he was drunk nonetheless. She could tell by the way he had swerved all over the path, and how he stood there now, at the caravan’s door, desperately trying to feed his key into the lock and failing dismally.
She supposed she had loved him once, when he still had brown hair, those piercing, blue Irish eyes, and something resembling a physique. What a difference twenty years could make. The Irish eyes were still blue, but cloudy now, and they often regarded her through an alcoholic haze. The hair, what was left of it, was mostly gray, and the physique had grown and softened to the point of obesity.
She would have left him if she had somewhere to go, but she didn’t—her parents had disowned her shortly after she got together with Liam, and her sister was happily married to a banker and living in Cheam with boring husband and two teenage children.
Ruth was very much on her own, but at least she had Skipper. He was dependable, so long as she fed him regularly and had an abundant supply of sticks to throw.
The Children of Hecate seemed like a lifeline. She’d heard about it from Debbie. The young health visitor who was based at the doctors’ practice where Ruth worked as a part-time receptionist. The way Debbie had described it, it sounded like some kind of social club: a place she could meet people and share new and, according to Debbie, exciting experiences.
When she expressed interest, Debbie was enthusiastic, saying that she would love Ruth to go along with her to one of the meetings. She would drive, Debbie said, and it was probably best she didn’t tell Liam. Ruth’s deadbeat husband had a reputation in town as a drunk and a troublemaker, and no one really wanted to be associated with him. Which added to Ruth’s sense of isolation and her determination to strike out on her own.
Debbie drove them to Barking, where the group was meeting at a warehouse on an industrial estate.
They entered the warehouse and the blinkers dropped from Ruth’s eyes. There were a number of people there, possibly twenty or more, and Ruth was struck by how quiet it was. Most of those gathered were kneeling on hassocks in front of a stone altar, and they appeared to be praying. This was not what Ruth was expecting, and her excitement and apprehension dulled immediately. It reminded her too much of the ordeal of the Sunday morning Mass her parents would drag her along to when she was a child.
She turned to Debbie, who was kneeling beside her, and expressed her concern. Debbie just smiled, leaned into her and kissed her on the mouth. Full on the mouth. A deep, lingering kiss that seemed to last forever.
During that kiss, Debbie’s tongue slipped into Ruth’s mouth and began exploring, roaming over her teeth, twining Ruth’s tongue with hers. And while Debbie’s tongue awoke passions in Ruth she had thought long buried, Debbie’s hand slid under Ruth’s shirt, massaging her breasts, whilst her other hand delved down between her legs, her fingers bringing her to orgasm, quickly and efficiently.
“See, I told you it would be fun,” Debbie said as they finished.
Ruth picked up the stick and hurled it again and started to walk back to her caravan.
Liam called the caravan a trailer. His constant diet of American cop shows and films had left him with a desire to embrace a culture he saw as much more exotic than his own. And Ruth was beginning to hate him for it. His desires were unobtainable pipedreams. Instead of working to achieve them, he contented himself with drawing unemployment benefit and pissing it up the wall.
At least the nights in Barking gave her something to look forward each week. She still didn’t care for the devotional side of things, but the evenings were always daring and exciting.
She stopped at the door of the caravan and called, “Skipper?” but the dog hadn’t returned with the stick. She called again and scanned the landscape, looking over the wasteland, expecting to see the black-and-white head emerge from a clump of heather or nettles. But there was no sign of him.
“Don’t make me come and find you,” she warned.
And then she heard him yelp. From the far side of the wasteland, where a fly-tipper had dumped an old wooden-framed bed and a large pile of black plastic sacks containing who knew what. Then she heard Skipper yelp again, followed by a long, mournful wail.
The sound made her blood run cold. The idea of losing her dog was unthinkable. Skipper was her life, her reason for carrying on, and the thought of life without the irrepressible bundle of black-and-white fur was too much to bear.
She began to run, away from the caravan, back across the wasteland, calling all the while, eyes searching for any sign.
She reached the dumped bags and bed and called again, her voice softer now, less threatening. “Come on, boy. Dinner.”
The black bags moved slightly, or rather, something under the bags moved slightly, making them appear as if there were things living in them.
“Skipper?” she said, and tentatively reached out her hand to pull one of the bags to one side.
It moved so fast she didn’t have a chance to register surprise or to cry out.
Something brown and covered in fur erupted from the mound of rubbish bags.
Something huge, holding a limp and very dead Skipper in what she could only describe as a large paw tipped with savage claws. Blood was dripping from Skipper’s body and running from the black plastic to pool on the scrubby ground.
Ruth screamed then, a long high-pitched squeal that was cut off mid note by a slashing claw that ripped through her clothes and the skin beneath, shredding her breasts. The dead dog dropped to the ground as th
e other claw lashed out, tearing her throat.
In the time it took for the claws to rip through her body, Ruth Shaughnessy died.
In the caravan, not two hundred yards away, Liam Shaughnessy popped the tab on yet another can of lager and chugged it back, continuing his usual evening descent into drunkenness. He wondered briefly if Ruth had prepared his supper, and spent even less time thinking where she might be. But as alcohol surged around his bloodstream, he decided that he didn’t much care.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Are you staying for tea?” Violet said when she let Harry in.
He shook his head. “Thanks for the offer, Vi. But I’ve got to drive to Gatwick to pick Jason up. He managed to get a transfer on his ticket. He lands at five.”
“Can’t he get a taxi?”
“He could, but I want to debrief him as soon as possible, and I can do that in the car. One other thing. We can take a detour to Hertfordshire on the way back. I want to go and see your sister again. I can take Jason with me. He seemed to hit it off with your nephew, Tim. He certainly got more useful information out of him than I got from your sister and that wet weekend of a husband of hers. Can you call her and arrange it? Tell her we’ll be there about eight.”
“I’ll ring her once you’ve gone. Shall we go through to the library?”
“We’ve found Fin Clusky,” Bartlett said.
Susan looked up from her desk. “Thank God for that. Are you bringing him in for questioning?”
“Can do. Do you want him in the body bag, or out of it?”
“Oh, please don’t tell me he’s dead?”
“Okay, he’s not dead.”
“Really?”
“No. He’s dead. Had his guts ripped out and strewn across the forest floor.”
“Jesus!”
“Turned up in Epping Forest an hour ago. An old lady walking her dog came across him. He’s pretty messed up. The old girl has been taken to St. Margaret’s Hospital to be treated for shock.”
Susan sank her head into her hands. “Just when I thought we’d been handed a break. Get down there, Jake. See what you can find out.”
“Don’t you want to go yourself?”
“I’d love to, but I’ve been grounded. Deputy Commissioner Mackie phoned me to put me in my place. Something about straying into other jurisdictions. He wants me to stay here at Waterloo Road and stop gallivanting around London and surrounding areas, stepping on people’s toes. There have been complaints.”
“Who grassed you up?”
“Barking CID for one. Their Chief Superintendent Blower called Mackie and told him I was interfering in an ongoing investigation, and said interference was most unwelcome. Pompous ass.”
“Yeah,” Bartlett said. “Blower’s like that.”
“You know him?”
“Yeah, we came up through the ranks together. He was a bright spark, brighter than me anyway, so they fast-tracked him. He’s anally retentive. Likes to be in control of things. I should imagine that our presence at the warehouse sent him into a hissy fit.”
Susan shook her head. “Mackie also said I should…how did he put it…‘curtail our current dealings with certain officers of government departments’.”
“He means Harry Bailey.”
“Yes.”
“That’s going to screw up your love life.”
“There’s nothing going on.”
“Oh, come on, Sue. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. And you him for that matter.”
“Harry and I get on,” Susan said defensively. “Plus, working together is mutually beneficial.”
“Is that what they’re calling it now?” Bartlett grinned.
“Careful, Jake. Remember, you’re only a sergeant. I’m still your boss.”
“I’m right though, aren’t I?”
“Piss off to Epping Forest,” Susan said with a smile. “And bring back something I can use. We have the murder of a young girl to solve.”
Bartlett threw her a salute. “Aye, ma’am. I’ll do what I can.”
Violet’s call came through as he was driving on the M23, fifteen minutes to Gatwick Airport.
“Stephanie’s agreed to see you. Eight o’clock this evening. George won’t be there. He has to work late.”
“Thank heavens for small mercies.”
“Go easy on him, Harry. George is essentially a good man. Dull but good.”
“Who put so much pressure on his daughter to reach the dizzy height of an Oxford education that he drove her away and into the arms of Anton Markos.”
“You can’t say that for sure.”
“That’s how I read the situation last time I was there. Will Tim be in?”
“I forgot to ask.”
“I hope so. I think he can fill in some important background information. I got the impression from Jason that Tim was closer to Alice than anyone. Speaking with him might show me things in a different light.”
“Well, eight o’clock.”
“We’ll be there.”
Harry pulled into the airport car park. left his car and walked through to the arrivals hall. Jason’s flight landed on time, but customs and passport control were working to rule because of an industrial dispute, so it was an hour before Jason West appeared at the gate. He sketched a wave at Harry and came around the barrier to join him.
“Did you bring me a gift?” Harry said.
“I’ve got a souvenir pine cone in my bag. Will that do?”
“It’ll have to.”
“We’re in car park B. Come on. We’re due at Stephanie Logan’s house at eight.”
Jason glanced at his watch. “We’re cutting it fine. No time to grab a bite to eat then?”
“I got you a sandwich. Ham and mustard, okay.”
“Didn’t they have prawn?”
“Yes, they did. I bought two sandwiches: ham and mustard, and prawn. I don’t like ham and mustard, so I ate the prawn.”
“Thanks, Harry. You’re a star.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Glad I didn’t bring you a gift now,” Jason said.
They made it to the house in Hitchin with five minutes to spare. On the journey, Harry grilled Jason on his meetings with Karin Metz.
“Generally, how did she seem?”
“Pissed off, especially with her grandfather, Wolfgang. She blames him for everything. For driving Markos away, and for her exile in Austria. I think she genuinely loves Markos, or her darling Erik, as she calls him.”
“How did he do it, Jason? You know girls of that age. Markos was a good ten years older than all of them, and yet he managed to seduce them to the point where he had them eating out of the palm of his hand. What was his secret? What was the trick?”
“He filled their minds with romantic stories of goddesses. He was recreating the myths of his homeland, making it seem daring and wonderful. He was a beguiling storyteller, and he convinced them he could recreate them in the image of the goddess Hecate.”
“And do you think he believed it himself?”
“I think that’s what he was doing all along. Looking for a vessel. Someone he could use to bring Hecate into being. That’s what his cult the Children of Hecate was all about. It seemed mystical and mysterious and I’m sure that’s how he sold it to his followers.”
“So the sacrifice of Kerry Green was nothing but, what, window dressing?” Harry said.
“Possibly not. I think he had some kind of paranormal power, and I think he really believed he could achieve his fantasy by using the power of human sacrifice. Remember, the only sacrifice we can lay at his door is Kerry Green. I’m willing to bet there are other bodies somewhere.”
“We just haven’t found them yet.”
“And possibly we never will.”
“And you got all this from the
girl, from Karin Metz?”
“From her and from reading the files Vi amassed on him.”
“But I read the files and I didn’t get that much from them.”
“It was all there, Harry. But you had to read them with an open mind. I’m not really sure you believed in Vi when you agreed to help her.”
“I’ll admit, initially I was skeptical.”
“And your skepticism led you to miss things that, to an open mind, were blindingly obvious.”
“Are you saying that your mind is more open than mine?”
“Frankly, Harry, yes, I am. As one gets older, the mind becomes cluttered with preconceptions. They get in the way. Why do you think children can solve logic puzzles that have adults tearing their hair out for days? Younger people have the ability to think laterally. It’s more natural for them. Reading those files, I was doing just that. Making jumps in logic that simply passed you by. I’m not saying my brain’s better than yours, far from it. It’s just…”
“Younger. Yeah. I get it.” Harry yanked open the car door and got out.
“You’re angry with me.”
“No, I’m not, Jason. I’m angry with myself. Those books on the backseat. I borrowed them from Vi’s library because there’s something locked away in my mind that I can’t access. It’s something that I’ve been taught or read somewhere that’s going to help me understand what is really going on here. The books are all on Greek mythology. They are going to provide the key to help me find something, some piece of knowledge that’s been lost in the mists of my deteriorating mind. Age, it’s a bugger.”
He walked up the path of Stephanie Logan’s house and rang the doorbell.
“If Tim’s there, I want you to talk to him.” Harry said. “Gain his trust. Get him to open up.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Stephanie Logan answered the door and led them through to the lounge. The television was on and a game show was playing. Tim Logan was slouched in a chair in front of it.
Stephanie went across to the set and switched it off.
“Hey, I was watching that,” Tim complained from his chair.
