Let The Bones Be Charred

by Andy Maslen

  Stella smiled, remembering her own courtship. How she, an ambitious cop, had engaged in a stand-up shouting match with Richard Drinkwater, a rising human rights lawyer, after a trial went the wrong way as far as she was concerned.

  A year later they’d been smiling through clouds of confetti on the steps of the church in the Berkshire village where she’d grown up.

  ‘Was it mutual?’ she asked.

  Karlsson waggled his head from side to side.

  ‘In the end. I wore her down. But our dinner table conversations are about to get a whole lot more interesting.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Cee’s about to be ordained as a bishop. Friday next, as a matter of fact. Up at York minster. It’s quite the big circus. There’ll be TV cameras, the works.’

  Stella drew in a breath.

  ‘What’s Cee’s full name?’

  ‘Celia Thwaites. She’s on what you might call the progressive wing of the Church. Uses her maiden name.’

  Stella knew the name. Celia Thwaites was on Cam’s list. But was she in yellow, or pink? Stella cursed herself for not being able to remember.

  ‘Peter, did you see my guvnor’s press briefing the other day?’

  ‘No, why?’

  ‘Because we’re working on the theory that he’s targeting high-profile Christian women. Like Celia.’

  Karlsson sat back in his chair. He ran a hand over his hair. Scratched at his beard. Looked behind him at the photographs. Then, finally, he looked at Stella.

  He shook his head.

  ‘Not possible,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sorry, what’s not possible?’

  ‘She’s not high profile.’

  ‘She will be after next Friday, won’t she? Listen, this is very important. Has Celia had any approaches from someone calling themselves MJ Fox?’

  Karlsson’s eyes were wide and his face was drained of colour. Stella had seen it before; the look when a life lived in one world, an ordered, controlled, everyday world, collided with another. The world Stella and her colleagues dealt with all the time.

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’

  ‘Can you call her?’ Stella asked.

  ‘Yes. Yes. I can call her. Now, right? You mean call her now?’

  ‘Yes, now. And tell her to make sure she stays with other people.’

  Karlsson pulled out his phone.

  Stella observed him closely as he spoke to his wife. Are you the real thing, prof, or is this an act for my benefit?’

  ‘Hi, darling, it’s me. Yeah, fine, look, I have to ask you something and it’s incredibly important. What? No! Look, shut up a minute, will you? Has anyone calling themselves MJ Fox approached you recently?’ Stella watched as he fell silent, listening, his brown eyes flicking round the room, unable to fix on any given point. ‘You’re sure?’ he said. ‘OK, great, great. No. It’s fine. Just, if they do, don’t do whatever they ask and call 999 instead. Yes. I think so. I’ve got a detective sitting in my office right now. Oh, and she says to stay with other people. What? Well, try. It’s for your own protection. OK. Love you, too. Bye. Bye.’

  He put the phone on the desk, then lined it up with the closed laptop.

  ‘That was a no, then?’ Stella asked.

  Karlsson was breathing rapidly, his face still pale.

  ‘Yes. Cee said she’s been being careful after she saw the press briefing. But no MJ Fox. Do you think she’s in danger?’

  ‘Not while she’s in public. There’ll be far too many people watching and no doubt the minster people will have security in place. Probably the local cops, too. But I’ll put in a call to the Head of Crime up there. Just so they know.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘But, Peter, even if she isn’t now, after Celia’s ordained I’m afraid there’s a strong possibility she’ll be on the killer’s radar. She’ll fit his victim type.’

  ‘So what do we do?’ Karlsson asked. ‘She’ll be a Church of England bishop. We can’t go into hiding!’

  Stella blew her cheeks out. Thinking, after looking at Cam’s list, we’d blow the whole Met budget trying to protect everyone on it.

  ‘I know it’s a cliché, but just be extra careful. Vigilant. It’s still a very good way to protect yourselves.’

  ‘But this is insane! You’re telling me there’s a religious nutjob killing women like Celia, and you can’t do anything to keep her safe? I thought that was the whole point of the police!’

  ‘It is. But we simply don’t have the budget or the people. I’m sorry, Peter, really I am. Look, if it’s any help, we think he’s gaining his victims’ confidence by using this alias, then charming or somehow insinuating himself into their homes. As long as Celia keeps her wits about her, I think she’ll be fine.’

  This seemed to reassure the panicky academic. Maybe the detail and the reason worked where the advice to be vigilant seemed too flimsy, Stella thought.

  Karlsson’s colour slowly returned. He even managed a half-smile.

  ‘Thank you. I’m sorry for what I said just now. I was out of control.’

  Reflecting that if Peter Karlsson’s idea of losing control was raising his voice and asking perfectly reasonable questions, he obviously had never seen human beings truly lose it. She waved away the apology.

  ‘It’s fine, honestly. I’m just sorry we can’t do more to help.’

  By way of answer, Karlsson pointed at the book, lying forgotten on the desk between them.

  ‘Look at the contents list.’

  Stella turned a few more pages. Then nodded. Chapters one through three took as their subject matter the martyrdoms of Saints Sebastian, Lucy and Agatha. Chapter four focused on Saint Bartholomew.

  She flicked through the pages until she found it. Beneath the chapter heading was a photograph of a sculpture. A man seemingly made of naked muscles holding his own peeled skin over an arm. The caption told the inquisitive reader that this was a work by a sculptor named Marco d’Agrate, completed in 1562 and available to view in Milan Cathedral: the duomo.

  She looked up at Karlsson. ‘Is the whole book like this?’

  ‘No. The first section looks at the lives of five early Christian martyrs. They were all killed by the Romans. Then I move forwards through history, to the wave of Protestant and Catholic martyrdoms and on to modern times and the horrific crimes perpetrated in Africa, China and other places less tolerant than England.’

  ‘Strange subject for an atheist, isn’t it?’

  He smiled.

  ‘Not at all. I examine the history of martyrdom and the way the Christian church has venerated those who suffered while inflicting the most unimaginable sufferings on those who disagreed with whatever doctrine currently holds sway amongst the elite.’ He paused, and a boyish grin offset the pompous tone of his remarks. ‘Sorry, I’ll just climb down off my soapbox, shall I?’

  Stella shrugged.

  ‘Up to you, prof. So what about chapter five?’

  ‘Ah. Well, that would be Saint Lawrence. He was roasted alive, grilled, really.’

  Stella closed her eyes and rubbed the lowered lids with thumb and forefinger as she tried to avoid visualising a man being burnt to death.

  She failed, mainly because she had almost burnt a man to death herself. In the end, as Mister Justice Sir Leonard Ramage sat, bound, in his burning Bentley, Lola had appeared to her and said, ‘The man is burning, Mummy, like I was.’ Stella had run back to the car and shot Ramage between the eyes.

  Now she felt her tiredness as a physical burden, a weight dragging her down. She yawned until her jaw popped. Opening her eyes again, she found Karlsson’s gaze fixed on her. He was frowning.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked. ‘Would you like a coffee? I’m sorry, I should have offered you a drink when you arrived but, to be honest, I don’t get to talk to many detectives and I was distracted. Our restaurant does a perfectly acceptable cappuccino.’

  ‘That sounds like a great idea. No sugar and an extra shot, ple
ase. Sorry, I’m not getting quite as much sleep as I would like at the moment.’

  ‘I can understand why. With three murders to investigate, I imagine you must be surviving mainly on caffeine and adrenaline.’

  She smiled and nodded.

  ‘Something like that. Don’t forget pizza and Chinese takeaways.’

  ‘I won’t be long, this time of day they’re usually pretty quiet.’

  With Karlsson, gone, Stella pulled out her phone and checked her emails. The team were sending her updates on their progress, but they were all pretty routine. Except for one. Cam had found Celia Thwaites on a YouTube compilation of inspirational female vicars.

  She called her.

  ‘Yes, boss?’

  ‘Cam, can you look up Celia Thwaites on your BBC list for me, please? I need to know if she’s a yellow or a pink.’

  ‘Sure. Hold on.’ Stella heard papers rustling. ‘Here she is. Pink. Invited but not yet appeared.’

  Stella realised she’d been holding her breath and let it out in a rush.

  ‘Thanks, Cam. Gotta go.’

  Ten minutes later, Karlsson returned with two corrugated brown cardboard takeaway cups topped with white plastic lids.

  ‘Here you are,’ he said, placing one of the cups in front of Stella. ‘That’ll put hairs on your chest.’ Then he blushed. ‘I mean, keep you awake. Sorry, forgive me, that was completely inappropriate.’

  He looked genuinely upset, nervous even, and Stella felt some words of reassurance were needed.

  ‘It’s fine. Don’t worry. Come down to Paddington Green and you’ll hear a lot worse than that, I can promise you.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes! It’s fine. Please, Peter, relax.’

  He blew his cheeks out.

  ‘You wouldn’t believe the way things have changed in universities over the last few years. In the old days, you could make a comment like that to a student or a colleague and it wouldn’t even be noticed. Now, you’re likely to find yourself hauled in front of an ethics committee and ordered to take gender-awareness training. Not to mention the flaming you get on social media for committing a micro-aggression.’

  Stella smiled and sipped her coffee.

  ‘Mmm, that’s good. Actually, I would believe it. The Met’s going the same way. Admittedly we don’t have DCs wanting trigger warnings. It wouldn’t really work with investigating rapes and sexual assaults. But the climate’s changing. I have to say, mostly for the better.’

  Karlsson sighed. He drank from his own cup.

  ‘I suppose you’re right. But I tell you, sometimes I feel like the students wouldn’t mind creating a few martyrs of their own.’

  ‘On that subject, you said he was following the chapters of your book?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When did it come out?’

  ‘Friday the 24th of August. We had a launch at Waterstones in Gower Street that evening, why?’ Then his eyes widened. ‘Wait! That’s too late, isn’t it? When was the first woman murdered?’

  ‘Niamh Connolly was killed on the 13th, Sarah Sharpe sometime between the 17th and the 21st and Sister Moira on the 23rd.’

  ‘Oh my God! That means the murderer must have had access to the manuscript in advance.’

  Stella nodded, reflecting that under pressure or shock even leading atheists reverted to invoking God.

  ‘It looks like it. Who would have had access to your book before it was actually published?’

  Karlsson’s eyes went to the ceiling.

  ‘Er, well, me, obviously. Cee reads all my stuff, too. Then there’re the people at my publisher: my editor, the proofreader and indexer, the designer, production manager. Plus the typesetters and the printers. I suppose the distributor, too, though I think they only get their copies a couple of days before launch date.’

  ‘I’ll need a list of names,’ Stella said, feeling simultaneously elated at the step closer to the killer she was taking, and also depressed at the thought of yet another list of people they’d need to check out.

  ‘Of course,’ Karlsson said. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know them all. I mainly deal with Kathy Marks. She’s my editor at Moathouse Press. They’re my publishers. I can give you her email and mobile number?’

  ‘Yes please. We can follow up with her.’

  Karlsson’s face was still waxily pale, making his goatee look like a theatrical prop. He wiped a hand across his mouth.

  ‘This is terrible. I feel responsible. If I hadn’t written the book, those poor women wouldn’t have been tortured so horribly.’

  Stella shook her head.

  ‘It doesn’t work like that. These people, they’re obsessed. The obsession comes first then they cast around for ways to make it real. If he hadn’t got his hands on your manuscript, he would have just found another source. It’s not as if information’s in short supply these days, after all.’

  Visibly relieved, Karlsson smiled thinly.

  ‘I suppose not. But all the same. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at a copy without feeling guilty.’

  Stella only vaguely heard Karlsson’s last sentence. Her brain was engaged on a deeper process, tuning out from her immediate surroundings and focusing inwardly on something Karlsson had said just before leaving to fetch the coffees.

  The insight, when it came, didn’t flash or pulse, it didn’t arrive with a fanfare or a beating drum. It was if she had been paddling on a beach and a wave had carried it in to shore and retreated, leaving the beautiful idea sparkling behind among the pebbles.

  Her eyes came into focus on Karlsson’s lips, which were moving.

  ‘ – anything else I can help you with?’

  She nodded, hoping that her moment of inspiration had only taken a few milliseconds and that he hadn’t noticed.

  ‘Your book.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The first five chapters go Sebastian, Lucy, Agatha, Bartholomew and Lawrence, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Which would be arrows, eyes, breasts, skin, roasting?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Now she knew it. Her subconscious had come through.

  70

  TUESDAY 4TH SEPTEMBER 11.00 A.M.

  Stella spoke, letting her insight out into the air between her and Karlsson.

  ‘The murderer didn’t follow that pattern. He’s using your book as a guide. But the mutilations he inflicted were in the wrong order. Niamh Connolly corresponds to Saint Agatha. Sarah Sharpe to Saint Sebastian. Moira Lowney to Saint Lucy. Did you change the chapter order at any point?’

  Karlsson drained his coffee, then nodded.

  ‘There was an early draft where Agatha, Sebastian and Lucy were chapters one, two and three. But I decided to change it. I wanted to ramp up the horror as the reader progressed further into the book. I know it sounds weird, but I had to make decisions about which tortures were the least bad. It’s an odd feeling, trying to decide whether gouging a woman’s eyes out is more or less hideous than cutting off her breasts. In the end, I left it to the publishers.’

  ‘So who had access to the early version?’

  ‘Almost no-one. I discussed it with Cee, but only in outline. She never likes to read my early drafts. Says it takes up too much time when she knows I’ll only ask her to read the final one as well. I worked on it here, but I always locked the latest printed copy of the manuscript away at the end of the day.’

  Karlsson pointed over Stella’s shoulder at a pair of black metal filing cabinets.

  ‘All the various printed-out versions are in the bottom drawer, there, in the right-hand cabinet. Do you want to see them?’

  Stella nodded and levered herself out of her chair, feeling dizzy for a moment, silvery-white sparks dancing in the periphery of her vision. She steadied herself with a hand on the back rest of the chair then walked to the cabinets. Karlsson followed her, crouched and pulled a keyring from his trouser pocket.

  Thick wodges of A4 paper completely filled the drawer, sandwic
hed together in yellow suspension files. Karlsson pulled the mass of compressed paper towards him and tugged out the rearmost bundle. A thick red rubber band held the sheets together. He handed it to Stella, then closed the drawer and stood.

  A small round table occupied a corner of the office and she put the manuscript down on its smooth white top. The first page bore a single line of type:

  Why is God Such a Sadist?_PK_1

  And a scribbled date in red pen: 31/1/18 with a cryptic ‘FTD’ beside the numbers.

  Stella lifted it off and placed it, face-down, on the left of the pile. Just as Karlsson had said, the next page was titled:

  Chapter One

  Misogynistic Cruelty: Saint Agatha

  Chapters two and three, on Saints Sebastian and Lucy, also confirmed what Karlsson had told her. Without sitting again, Stella asked Karlsson her next question.

  ‘Did you ever leave this lying around where someone could have seen it?’

  ‘Yes. It would have been on my desk, or on this table. I tried to remember to lock it away each time I left my office, but you know what it’s like. You’re late for a seminar, or a student’s having some sort of existential crisis or the bloody dean wants you in her office. Well, you just go, don’t you?’

  Knowing the feeling only too well, Stella nodded sympathetically.

  ‘Did you ever send this version in to your publishers?’

  ‘No. They would have got what I considered at the time to be the final draft. This was the first.’

  ‘OK, that’s good in one way. It means we can discount that whole lot of people. No need for a list of them after all. On the downside, it means we need to build a new list of all the people who would have had access to your office while you were out and probably for long enough to photocopy at least the first five chapters.’

  ‘Wow! OK. That could be quite a long list. The trouble is, if I wasn’t here, it’s hard to know who was, if you see what I mean. I think some of my colleagues in the Philosophy department could keep you occupied for several months just discussing the terms of reference for that kind of question. Which,’ he said hurriedly, as Stella frowned, ‘I know you don’t have. Sorry, bad timing for a poor joke. But we do have a departmental secretary. She could help you, I’m sure. She’s a little obsessive.’