by Gwyn GB
He wasn’t about to do any of that. Harrison refused to be driven into doing anything negative or harmful, but he had to do something. He got changed and went to the hotel gym.
Every muscle in his body felt tensed for flight. He was ready to go into battle, to charge at his enemy and fight for his life. He needed to run that energy out, drain his fury so that it couldn’t hurt him, or anyone else.
The gym was part of a health club and so it had more equipment than many others, and there was also a good sized pool. Nevertheless, there was only one other person in there when he arrived. A middle-aged woman who was using one of the leg curl machines. She looked like being in the gym was helping her pass time rather than that she there for some serious exercise. She wore brand new Sweaty Betty gym leggings and a vest, which had definitely not had the opportunity to live up to their name. She’d do five leg curls and then stop for a while and look around. When Harrison walked in, she seemed to perk up. The scenery had just got a whole lot better.
He didn’t acknowledge her. He was in no mood for distractions. Instead, he walked straight to one of the running machines and got on, pressing the buttons so it beeped fast, until the speed racked up to a run. Even the irritating sound of the beeping machine gave his rage energy. He fixed his eyes forward and stared at the plain green wall in front of him, and then he ran.
He ran until every muscle in his legs and buttocks were pumped and hard, until the sweat ran down his back, darkening the black sleeveless t-shirt he wore. His shoulders shone with the exertion and his arms worked back and forth like pistons. As he ran, he punched at the air to release the tension, flexing his biceps and pushing the breath from his body with each punch. He needed more. He needed his lungs to hurt, his abs to be straining, fully extended, and so he pushed the speed higher. He wanted pain. He wanted every muscle to be screaming for him to stop.
Harrison’s cheeks billowed and his face reddened as the exertion pushed up his body temperature. His feet pounded on the treadmill, thumping down rhythmically amid the whining whir of the machine. His entire face glistened with sweat and he could feel it starting to drip into his eyes and down the back of his thick neck, running over the small tattoo of a brown eagle.
Finally, his breathing became ragged. His lungs burned with each inhalation and exhalation. He struggled to get the oxygen in fast enough to his tired muscles, and at last he slowed the treadmill down to a jog and then a walk. He rolled his shoulders, trying to release the last of the tightness which had held his back so rigid and caused his neck to pain.
When he got off, he stopped a few moments, allowing his head to steady and stretching his legs and arms, bending from side to side and flexing his hips. Then he took it in turns to stand on one leg, bending the other up to pull his thighs and hamstrings into a stretch. Tipping onto alternate heels to work his calf muscles. For a few moments, he stood still, focusing on his breathing, feeling the pumping of oxygenated blood bubbling around his system. When he’d finished, he turned back round to see the woman still sitting on the same machine.
‘Good afternoon’, he said to her as he walked out. She garbled something and watched him leave.
Harrison went straight to his room and into the shower. The run had helped, boosting his endorphins and giving him his own natural morphine effect. For now, it had also woken him up. A mental slap to get his act together. He was not going to let the Mannings win. He had a job to do and if they distracted him, he would be letting the victims down and potentially allowing the killer to strike again.
Harrison picked up his mobile phone and started looking through the missed calls and emails. There were three from the same number, he pressed call back.
‘Bob Enson.’
It was the rugby coach the lads from yesterday had suggested he speak to.
‘Mr Enson, it’s Dr Harrison Lane. I apologise for not being available to speak earlier.’
‘Not a problem. I was keen to speak to you because I wanted to be sure you had the correct information. I’d like to see George’s killer caught, but I’m not sure if it’s related at all.’
‘Please, just tell me the facts of what happened, Mr Enson.’
‘George had recently joined the club as a fresher. He’d done well at his school, Harrow I think he was at, and said he was keen to keep it up. We were about five or six weeks into the term when he turned up for training but was obviously in pain. He went on the field, but he’d worn long Under Armour trousers underneath his shorts. He kept well out of the action and steered clear of any kind of contact with the rest of the team. Afterwards, it became clear why. He was covered in welts, the kind of bruising you get if you’ve been hit with a strap or long object of some kind. I mean, he really was black and blue on his legs, buttocks and back. I asked him about it and he said he’d fallen down the stairs. I can tell you there’s no way those injuries were from a fall. To me, he looked like he had been beaten, but he refused to discuss it. I tried to talk to him about it a few times, and then he eventually stopped coming. We can’t inform parents, they’re adults, but I always wondered what had gone on.’
‘Was there any indications that he was a part of a secret society of any form?’
‘I can’t say I heard anything, but I was unlikely to. What I do know is that his attitude changed over those five weeks he was with us. He started off as a diligent, polite and pleasant lad. By the time he stopped coming, I was having serious thoughts about telling him to leave because he had become what I can only call elitist and quite frankly, a prize shit. He called the other lads, heathens, and seemed to think he was better than all of them. He wasn’t good for the team.’
‘Did you ever notice a tattoo on his hip?’
‘No, but I’m not likely to have. I only saw the bruises because they were so obvious.’
Harrison thanked Bob and said he would ask one of the officers to get an official statement from him. This was critical evidence, because Harrison knew it was yet further clues to the fact George Marshwood had joined a secret association.
Once he’d read the email from Ryan, Harrison knew that his hunch from yesterday, was right. The association was called the Moatside Monks. Ryan had found a deleted post on one of the student channels, mentioning the group and linking it to George. The post had been very quickly deleted, but he’d managed to grab a screenshot. Harrison needed to get into the station and share all this information with the team. He’d already lost valuable time thanks to his distraction with Freda Manning, and in investigations like this, time was critical.
The second he arrived, Lucy accosted him with a big, beaming smile. They’d received yet more sightings of the ghost monk. They were more random now, spread across the centre of the city. She showed him some of the new statements, jiggling around the desk like a cat on a hot tin roof.
‘They’re all pretty much the same. All said he had no face and disappeared without a trace. I was careful how I phrased any questions.’
He could tell she’d been working hard on her interview technique, but nevertheless, most of the reports were pretty uniform, and none of them gave any further clues as to who it was, or what the ghost monk was doing. Lucy still had her trump card to show him.
‘Most of them weren’t caught on CCTV, but two of the witnesses got video footage on their phones.’ She paused a few moments, waiting for a reaction. ‘This is the first time we’ve seen him on camera. It’s proof he’s real,’ she added. ‘The sightings are escalating and the local paper has told us they’ve been sent a photograph of the ghost. They’re going to email that over too.’
Harrison didn’t share Lucy’s enthusiasm because he suspected their ‘ghost’ had now become a potential money spinning social media viral opportunity, but he followed her to her desk where she had the clips up ready to show him.
The first was very short, but revealed a black cloaked monk-like figure crossing one of the narrow cobbled streets in Durham. He stood for a few moments and then disappeared up what seemed to be a s
mall alley between some buildings.
‘There were five witnesses to this,’ Lucy said to Harrison.
He watched it again.
‘Why does he stop in the middle of the street? It’s as though he’s making sure they’ve seen him,’ Harrison said.
‘This one is similar.’ Lucy took control of the computer mouse and clicked on to the next video she wanted to show him. ‘It’s a few streets away, same night.’
Harrison watched as again the monk walked into the middle of the street. This time he had his hands clasped together as if in prayer. He stopped, lifted his head slightly, enough for the witnesses and the video viewers to see nothing but darkness under the hood, as though he had no face. Then he was gone.
‘That’s the best we’ve got so far. You can see what everyone is talking about. No face. It’s creepy.’
’Mmhh,’ Harrison replied.
‘Yeah. I know what you’re saying. It does look a bit, well… staged.’
‘It does, but can you forward me the photo when it comes in from the paper?’
‘Sure, of course,’ Lucy replied. She looked disappointed that he didn’t share her enthusiasm. ‘Do you think they’re genuine?’ She asked him.
Harrison was just about to reply when DS Urquhart marched up to them.
‘Initial pathology results for Christopher are back from Dr Sharma, you might want to come and have a listen.’
Harrison did indeed want to hear and so he thanked Lucy and followed the DS into the briefing room, where a small gathering of detectives was sitting expectantly in front of the large screen at the far end of the room. On the screen was Sunil’s office. Harrison recognised the certificates on the wall and could tell the camera was from his desktop computer. There was the sound of someone approaching, and the cheerful face of Sunil Sharma filled the screen. He was carrying a mug, and Harrison guessed he’d probably just been off to fill it up with his chai.
‘Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen,’ he said. ‘This will only be a short session, I fear, as you will appreciate you did not give me a lot to work with. Our young man has been identified through dental records and DNA, to be Christopher Downey. He was eighteen when he went missing. As he has been in the ground for a year, I am unable to say with one hundred percent accuracy how he died, although I do have a good idea. There are no gunshot wounds or stab marks on the bones, and he was not poisoned like George. What I did find, however, are some fractures on his left femur and his sacrum in his lower back, consistent with blunt instrument trauma. Critically, the fracture on his femur could have been sufficient to kill him. I have seen injuries like this that have resulted in blood clots which have gone on to the heart or lungs, or if it severed the femoral artery, he would have bled to death rapidly. The femur is a tough bone, there was a fair amount of force needed to cause those fractures.’
‘Are we talking a fall, or some kind of beating?’ DI Steadman asked now. He’d come into the room and was stood at the back arms and eyebrows crossed.
‘In my view, these are not the kinds of injuries we would expect to see from a fall. They are too localised. I would say he has been hit with something.’
‘Dr Sharma, did you notice any healed blunt trauma injuries on George? I have spoken to witnesses who say that two years ago, when he was a fresher, he was covered in severe bruising on his thighs, buttocks and back which were consistent with being beaten.’ Harrison asked.
‘I was not looking for any fractures, but I remember seeing some scar tissue. Let me revisit that and get him scanned. I will get back to you as soon as I can.’
‘Any more questions?’ John Steadman asked the room.
All the heads shook.
‘Thank you, Dr Sharma.’
‘I would like to say a pleasure, but you know…’ Sunil replied, nodding his head from side to side; and with a wry smile, he shut down the video feed.
John turned to Harrison. ‘Do you have any ideas about what we’re dealing with here?’
‘It fits in with the secret society theory,’ Harrison began. ‘I think it’s hazing.’ A room of blank faces looked back at him. John raised an eyebrow quizzically.
‘Been around since medieval times. It’s a brutal kind of initiation that was used to test new recruits or graduates and enforce respect for an organisation. It became popular among the US college fraternities, but they’ve really cracked down on it lately after students died or were permanently injured. You might also come across it sometimes in sports groups, the military and street gangs.’
‘Hazing?’
‘Yes, it can take several forms. One of the most simple methods is excessive alcohol bingeing, basically you’re peer-pressured into drinking too much. Usually it just results in vomiting and an extremely bad hangover, but occasionally it goes too far and people are hospitalised. Among girls there’s even a kind of mental torture option, whereby they body shame each other. The other form, which is the most popular among those associations that are all male, is beating or paddling the initiate. Plus sexual assaults are also used. It’s a kind of dominance exercise, that the person joining is owned if you like, by that group, and if they take the torture, then they’re loyal and make the grade to become a member.’
‘So you’re thinking that both Christopher and George joined this secret society, and to become a member they had to be beaten?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why would they allow that, and who would do it? These are not supposed to be stupid people, they’re meant to be some of the country’s most intelligent students. George and Christopher came from wealthy families, they didn’t need for anything.’
‘It would be the existing members who would do the beating, and they’d suffer it because the society offered them a brotherhood, a sense of belonging and a support network.’
‘Bloody idiots if you ask me.’
Harrison didn’t reply. He didn’t need to.
‘So, say Christopher took part in this hazing ritual. It wasn’t intended to kill him, just test him?’
Harrison nodded.
‘So his death could have been an accident and would almost certainly involve the whole group, not just one individual. Would also explain the different presentations of the two bodies. Christopher’s was hidden, and an attempt made to hide forensic evidence, while George was very public and clearly intentional.’
‘Indeed, so you have the possibility of a leaky boat in relation to Christopher’s death. Perhaps one of the group struggled with their secret.’
‘Perhaps George was the weak link?’
‘Perhaps. I also think I know the name of their group. I found some symbols yesterday, which I think are connected, graffiti’d on some walls in Moatside Lane. Plus, my technical analyst managed to capture a post on one of the student chat boards, which mentions the Moatside Monks, in relation to George.’
‘Moatside? That’s where George lived with the other lads.’
John and David exchanged glances.
‘Told you that lot were hiding something. No wonder they’ve got the best lawyers on hand,’ said John. ‘Can you brief the forensics photographer? We’re going to need every little morsel of evidence we can get.’
‘But that still doesn’t explain the phantom ghost monk. What are they up to?’ David asked Harrison. ‘Was it George, and now it’s another member of the group?’
‘It could have been George. It has to be someone who knew Christopher was killed and therefore that would suggest it’s one of the group, or someone close to them. I think the recent sightings are copy cats or just a form of mass hysteria. Once Christopher was found, I think our original monk retired.’
‘Or was killed.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Bloody ghost, my arse,’ John said, finally slumping into one of the chairs. ‘He’s a right pain in the proverbial. Thanks to him it seems like we’ve got every bloody media outlet in the world here, and sightings are coming in every day, tying up our resources. Right, we need to focus on t
hose five lads. There has to be another weak link somewhere. I also want a team questioning everyone at the college about these so-called Moatside Monks. If it exists, then some of them will have heard about it and might talk. We’ve no idea how many members are in the group. Perhaps one of them has left. And get hold of University authorities. If this hazing business is going on, they need to know so they can be on top of it.’
The meeting broke up, but just as Harrison was about to leave, David Urquhart came up to him.
‘We’ve got the girlfriend of Christopher Downey coming in soon. Do you want to tag along? She was interviewed when he went missing, but with this recent development we need to talk to her again and get a statement. Perhaps she might be able to throw some light on what went on and possibly confirm he was involved with the Moatside Monks.’
18
Ryan was impeccable with his timing, as always. He’d been running a facial recognition programme across social media. With the amount of images, it invariably took time, but he’d found two very interesting posts. Neither of them were from any of the people linked to their enquiry, but someone had accidentally captured them in the background of other photographs.
The first was in the Undercroft Bar at the Castle, University college. Two girls had taken a selfie, but not framed it well, probably because they both looked like they’d been to a happy hour which had stretched on a little longer than sixty minutes. In the background was a group of male students sitting together. Christopher Downey was sitting next to Mark Lloyd-Jones and David Alexander, two of the other lads from George Marshwood’s house in Moatside. They were all laughing and smiling and relaxed in each other’s company. It was three days before he disappeared. The second image was outside, a shot of Palace Green and walking together, deep in conversation, were Christopher and Mark.
‘Excellent. How the hell did he find these?’ John asked Harrison when he showed him.
