by Devon De'Ath
Three minutes later, Christopher Warwick and Wendy Stokes emerged from the foyer, turning sharply left.
Crap, I need to keep them in sight. He dodged between passing cars to skirt several tree planters at the mouth of Lower Boxley Road opposite. Away from the full view of the glass-fronted reception, Christopher slipped a hand around Wendy’s waist. His fingers grazed the top of her buttocks in a ‘far too friendly for work’ display of desire.
Bill kept his distance. There weren’t many places to duck into here. If they ‘made’ him, he’d have to walk past as though on his way elsewhere. He hated that. People remembered a face if it kept popping up. Even one as unremarkable as his. The pair entered the ‘Hare and Hounds’ public house next to their office car park. Bill eased his pace but kept moving. That enclosed space was too small and empty to blend into the background at this time of day. He eyed the couple ordering drinks at the bar through the window, then pulled out his phone while walking around the corner.
“Philip? Bill. They’ve gone into the ‘Hare and Hounds’ for drinks. There’s nothing useful I can do in there. What did you say they were up to?” He paused. “For children with terminal illnesses? I see. They might be off for a spot of refreshment before heading back to the office.” He tried not to grin at the sarcastic response rumbling into his ear. “No, I don’t believe it either. If they are going back, I can’t follow them. Warwick’s car should stay put. If it doesn’t, I’ll track him via an app on my phone. If they visit his place, I’ll know about it.” The voice on the other end grew more agitated. Bill stiffened. “Calm down. This drink isn’t ironclad proof, though they’re more tactile than most co-workers. Okay, listen. I’ve locked up my office. I’ll head home and keep an eye on the tracker, then give you an update in the morning. Try to keep a cool head if you’re still awake when she comes home, yeah? Don’t do anything stupid. If she is cheating, the woman’s not worth your liberty. All right. Take care. Speak soon. Bye.” He hung up, then performed a circuit back across town.
* * *
“That’s not good. Where are you pair off to?” Bill Rutherford dropped a spoon into his bowl of chilli con carne. Sauce splattered his shirt. “Shit.” He tore his attention away from the mobile phone lying on a gate-legged dining table in his front room. Mopping the stain with a paper serviette didn’t help. “Crap.” He looked back at a pulsing blue dot moving southeast along the A20 on his phone’s electronic basemap. Unpredicted and unscheduled movement of a target was a variable Bill couldn’t leave in the wind. He darted into the kitchen, yanked off a stretch of cling film to cover his dinner, and then left it to cool. A dark, waterproof jacket came down off a hallway hook. Bill checked for his car keys, then pegged it out the front door to jump in a silver Skoda Octavia. The Skoda was perfect for his job. A cheap, fast, reliable workhorse, yet bland and forgettable to any observer. It didn’t pay to stand out when stitching someone up for infidelity, or worse. He stuffed the mobile phone into a dashboard cradle and gunned the engine to life. A horn blared as he made to peel out into the road. Bill caught the skinhead driver of a passing Ford Focus give him the ‘wanker’ sign in his rear-view mirror. He took a breath then roared through the cramped back streets, lurching to a halt in time to avoid knocking a ten-year-old kid off his push bike.
Bill motorway junction-hopped the first leg between numbers seven and eight of the M20, to close the distance. The Skoda rejoined the A20 near Leeds Castle. Headlights flared to life as darkness closed in. He pushed reasonable excess of the speed limit to breaking point on the way to Harrietsham. Purpose sure, he barely noticed the Eurostar crossing an overheard railway bridge. Its thunderous velocity made his efforts appear pathetic and snail-like. The turnoff for Lenham passed in a flash. Bill kept a weather eye on his mirrors, hoping against hope to recognise any police vehicles before they stopped him for a quiet word.
The blue dot on his phone switched direction, heading northeast at a slower pace. Bill let out a sigh of relief and reduced pressure with his right foot. He indicated at a sharp left turn labelled ‘Hubbards Hill,’ which dog-legged a gradual ascent of the North Downs. A single track affair now, the quiet country lane wound across undulating fields and ancient land parcel boundaries, walled in on both sides by thick hedgerows.
Beyond the tiny hamlet of Warren Street, his quarry continued its north-easterly direction into Bunce Court Road. With the pulsing dot growing ever slower, Bill winced at a flash of headlights reflecting in his mirror. He didn’t want to get sandwiched in behind Warwick and the car behind. Even in the dark, that was too great a risk. He signalled to pull over, like an uncertain tourist attempting to find a pub they’ve booked for dinner but never visited. The headlights swept past, and he pulled out again. The tracker dot stopped for several seconds, then crawled northwest up what appeared a private driveway. Bill turned his vehicle’s forward illumination down to sidelights. He coasted past impressive wrought iron electric gates to some unseen country pile. A golden scripted sign on the wall beside read: ‘Hirsig House.’ Bill didn’t stop, lest the residence feature the obligatory security cameras such a property demanded.
Two hundred yards further on, a bridleway crossed the thoroughfare. He brought the Skoda to a halt, peering left up the track. I’ve got to get closer to that house. Nobody should be walking or riding down here at this time of night. He reversed up the bridleway, far enough to conceal his vehicle from any traffic passing along the lane. Bitter experience had taught him you always got your car ready for a rapid exit when conducting surveillance.
Bill shut off the engine and opened the boot. Inside, he kept an equipment bag on hand for any job. He donned a decent pair of walking boots, then unzipped the holdall to retrieve a digital SLR camera sporting a telephoto lens. I hope they haven’t drawn the curtains. He muttered a subdued petition to the universe under his breath. “Please let me get lots of nice clear photos for Philip.” He prayed the images wouldn’t prove too graphic. Bill always cherry-picked from a crop of surveillance photos when investigating infidelity. Clients needed simple proof of unfaithfulness, not heart-breaking partner porn. ‘Not Safe For Work’ type images he retained until the job was done, then deleted them. Most of his customers never saw the worst of what he had to sift through.
He slung the camera over one shoulder, then fished out a palm-sized camcorder in a pouch with a belt clip. This he fastened at his waist, though Bill wondered if it would produce anything usable in such low light conditions. Grainy, indistinct footage proved more of a hindrance than a help. It left too much room for speculation in an already difficult and emotionally charged situation.
The boot clicked shut, extinguishing the Skoda’s interior courtesy light. Bill locked the vehicle with his remote plip, then waited a minute for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Something scurried through the undergrowth. He guessed it to be a weasel. Appropriate, given his quarry: a man who appeared the human personification of such a devious creature. Bill edged past the cold bodywork of his car, pushing spiteful, low-hanging thorny branches away from his face. He continued along the track until an inorganic shape announced itself ahead, filling the bridleway. A cloud withdrew its veil from the full moon, casting silver light on red metallic paintwork of an Audi A3. Bill stopped dead, ears straining for any hint of nearby movement. Who the fuck would drive a car up here and leave it? He listened again, half expecting the ride’s suspension to jostle in time with two horny teenagers answering their hormonal, biological imperative. No sound or movement came. The car looked abandoned. Its exhaust pipe clicked, contracting in the cool, misty night air. They haven’t been here long, whoever ‘they’ are. He ran the usual suspects through his mind. Poachers? Rural burglars casing farms or posh houses? Fuel thieves hunting for red diesel? He’d have to keep his wits about him. Though in the event of discovery, another party might act as an involuntary distraction while he slipped away. Bill squeezed past the car. The track narrowed ahead. Bugger. There’s no way out for a car and they can’t reverse withou
t ramming my Skoda. God, I hope I’m gone before they get back. It was an impossible eventuality to control, so he sighed and pressed on into the darkness.
Five minutes later he crouched beneath the overhanging branches of a yew tree on the edge of a sloping field. Lights twinkled in the darkness from mullioned windows of a characterful medieval manor. Every corner and ridge line featured an adornment of small stone spires like phallic salutes to the star studded firmament. Box hedges and immaculate flower borders surrounded the property, leading to an expansive ornamental sunken garden at the rear. This lay concealed from ground level in a natural depression. A cavernous space like some long-forgotten quarry. Bill weighed up the possibilities. Those shrubs should provide enough cover to approach the downstairs windows at the front and sides. What about the back? I’d better do a recce to see if there’s any movement at the rear. On the other side of the field, he stopped short then dropped to the damp earth. Three people climbed out of a black Lexus, their silhouettes passing within inches of Bill’s face. He poked the twisted hedge aside. An expansive parking area to the left of the house contained twenty or more cars, many of them expensive marques. What on earth? Is this an upmarket swinger’s party or something? He noticed Christopher Warwick’s BMW. At least I know he’s here. Wendy’s got to be with him, unless she went home early. Philip will tell me that when I call him tomorrow.
Bill crawled prone around the edge of the parking area until his surroundings afforded enough cover to crouch and dash from shrub to shrub. It might be an idea to take some reference snaps. He clicked off a general half dozen shots of the house and busy car park. Best be careful how close I get to the windows with all those potential eyes looking out. I should check that sunken garden at the rear for a vantage point. He slipped from cover to cover, pausing when the moon shined its face like a prison searchlight across the ornamental horticulture.
A set of sturdy, double wooden doors with wrought iron bracings offered a curious rear exit to such a stunning property. Bill half expected it to feature a floor-to-ceiling glass orangery with French windows. Instead, the place appeared unaltered after centuries of habitation. Those double doors fed out onto a winding path that descended in a semi-circular vortex to a round, block-paved area featuring a substantial sundial. Bill crept around the lip of the garden, staring down into the centre far below. He’d gained enough elevation for a look-see into the upstairs rooms at the back. All remained in darkness at present. A twig snapped close by in the undergrowth. Bill froze. A shadowy, female figure hurried forward in a crouched run to slip down beside him. Her blonde ponytail flicked behind as she peered over the edge of the rise.
She looked him up and down, then cast her gaze back across the rear of the house. “Are you after evidence of the cult?”
Bill blinked. “What cult?” Here he was attempting covert surveillance of what he thought was a few randy, well-heeled toffs having a gang bang. Now some mysterious but stunning, athletic blonde pounced out of nowhere with a question like that. “What are you talking about?”
The rear double doors on the house swung open.
“I’d guess you’re about to find out.” The woman panted out a cloud of moist night air.
“Who are you, Lady?” Bill tried not to raise his voice. All his attempts at stealth seemed for nought. Who else might be waiting in the bushes, observing him?
“Vicky Lambert. I’m a social worker.”
Bill gawped. “Social worker? Do social workers usually sneak around bushes at stately homes after dark?”
Vicky raised a pair of petite binoculars to her face. “I’m looking out for the teenage daughter of a friend. She’s got mixed up with a dodgy crowd here.”
“Are you planning to swan in there and take her home?” Bill unhitched his SLR camera.
“No. I’m trying to find out what she’s into. Her mother thought adult films, but I have reason to believe otherwise.”
“You mentioned a cult?”
Vicky ignored the question. “Who are you, anyway? Why are you here?”
“Bill Rutherford - Private Investigator. I followed a man and woman over from Maidstone. Let’s just say the man isn’t the woman’s husband and her spouse is none too thrilled about it.” He adjusted the camera’s settings for a longer exposure in the dark conditions. Without a tripod handy, the lip of the rise would offer some support to keep his device from shaking. Shit. Low light requiring slow exposures with camera shake amplified by the telephoto zoom. Not the best recipe for clear images. “Say, is that your red Audi I stumbled past on the bridleway?”
Vicky nodded, focusing her binoculars to peer into the darkness of the open rear hallway. “Here they come.”
A bizarre murmur like arcane chanting wafted through the open portals. Clouds of incense teased across the threshold; heralds of a procession to follow.
Bill pulled the camera viewfinder close to one eye. His mouth dropped open. “Oh my good God. What are these people into?”
4
Cultic Climax
A chanting throng of hooded, black-robed figures processed along the descending vortex path. Thuribles of incense swung on brass chains carried by the front pair. In that restricted light, their twin clouds of smoke gave the procession an appearance of some serpent-like black dragon slithering down to its subterranean lair.
Bill Rutherford snapped off a series of shots, then rummaged around to free the tiny camcorder from his belt.
Vicky offered an upturned palm. “Would you like me to operate that?”
Bill opened the fold-out screen and flicked back the lens cover. “Crap. Don’t bother. It won’t produce anything of clarity from up here in this light.” He closed and stowed the device back on his belt. “I hope I have better luck with the stills.”
The procession rounded the curve beneath them, chants rising with sudden, rhythmic clarity. “Templi omnium hominum pacis abbas.”
Bill snapped more shots. “What have we walked into here?” He zoomed the lens. “I wonder if that one is their leader.”
Vicky followed the direction of his optical extension to a standout figure. It stood clad in robes of similar design to the others, though pure white. She dug the fingernails of both hands into the palms of her clenching fists. The white-robed figure shuffled along as if half-drunk or addled by an afflicted physiology. Wafts of the puffing incense reached Vicky’s nostrils. Powerful, memory-inducing effects of that smell thrust childhood flashbacks into her mind. She let out a gasp; almost a sob.
Bill cast a sideways glance at her while setting up the next shot. “Are you okay?”
Vicky trembled but nodded. “I’ll be all right.” She picked up her mini binoculars again to scan the crowd forming a circle around the sundial.
Bill focused his camera. “I guess I was wrong about the leader. Shit, is that a stake they’re tying him to down there? I don’t like where this is going.” He yanked a mobile phone from his jacket pocket. “Great. No signal. It looks like calling the cops is out of the question.”
Vicky’s stare never left the white-hooded figure secured to a post alongside the sundial. She whispered a heartsick, faraway declaration. “They wouldn’t arrive in time, anyway.”
The chanting grew in volume and vigour. Six of the figures cast their robes aside to reveal the naked bodies of three men and three women, each between late teens and mid-twenties. They danced and whirled about the bound figure, writhing and caressing their own bodies in an arousing display of seduction and wantonness.
Bill paused for an instant. None of the naked dancers were Wendy or Christopher. They were all too young. He thought about not photographing the scene in significant detail. How would such shots help his client? Then he considered the man tied at the stake. This was about more than infidelity, now. If things went the way they appeared, his images might prove crucial evidence in a criminal prosecution. He carried on taking pictures.
Vicky scanned the naked dancers with her binoculars. One particular girl caught her eye. L
ong, grey-dyed hair featuring streaks of purple swished about a heart-shaped head with pouting lips and an emotionless stare. She recognised those features from a picture Martha Tomlinson e-mailed of her daughter, Katie. The teenager stopped her sensuous balletic frolicking to line up between the other two girls facing the secured man in white. All three bent forwards and gripped the sundial for support, eyes never leaving the prisoner. Their naked male counterparts assembled behind, each inserting himself into the corresponding girl’s sex and grabbing their hips with firm hands. Another black-robed figure stepped next to the bound man. He tugged down the white hood, revealing auburn hair swept across a head adorned with an understated beard. The dazed man’s eyes squinted through a brain fog towards the middle girl before him. She looked familiar. Where was he? A wry smile crinkled Katie’s lips at the sight of Jeff, the homeless gardener. All about, the chant switched to a single word: ‘Baphomet.’ Over and over the word echoed in time with intimate, exaggerated thrusts from the naked men. In the faint glow of cold moonlight and several subdued candle lanterns borne by the ritual participants, a single steel blade glimmered. It hung from the hand of the one who had tugged down their offering’s hood. He stood ready at the man’s side, while the naked girls jiggled and chanted, their eyes rolling back at waves of approaching climax.
