A twinge in his hip brought him back to reality. Tina was right, he mustn’t overdo it. But then when she talked like that, he also sometimes wondered if he would be able to keep up with Anderson with his physical disability. His greatest fear being that the bloody gammy leg would let him down just at the wrong time. The last thing he wanted was to stare failure in the face. Making a success of this job was very important to him, to say the least.
Which reminded him that it was about time he got on with it. He’d been looking up the various symbols that they’d found on both girls. Most were different, but there was one that both girls had, at the top of each arm. It was the old alchemist sign for sulphur. But what was more worrying was the fact that it was often associated with Satanism. Crane clicked on a link in the search engine and read on...
The alchemical element sulphur (Brimstone). The symbol of sulphur was often used as an identifying symbol by Satanists, due to sulphur’s historical association with the Devil. This glyph was often referred to as the “pontifical cross of Satan” by Christian tract writers, due to its adoption as an emblem of Satanism by Anton LaVey in the 1960s. The emblem had no history as a symbol of Satanism outside of LaVey’s usage, and the attribution was most likely a product of anti-Catholic sentiment, as it was often compared in this context to the Catholic Pontifical Cross.
Brimstone eh? Somewhere in the depths of his memory was a snippet: fire and brimstone. He thought that was normally associated with witches. But it seemed as though there could be a connection with Satanism. Who was this Anton LaVey? It was certainly not a name he’d ever come across before. Crane clicked on another link.
LaVeyan Satanism was a philosophy and new religious movement founded in 1966 by American author and occultist Anton LaVey. The religion's doctrines and practices were codified in The Satanic Bible and overseen by the Church of Satan.
Satanism involved the practice of magic, which encompassed two distinct forms; greater and lesser magic. Greater magic was a form of ritual practice and was meant as psycho-dramatic catharsis to focus one's emotional energy for a specific purpose. These rites were based on three major psycho-emotive themes, including compassion (love), destruction (hate), and sex (lust). Lesser magic was the practice of manipulation by means of applied psychology and glamour (or ‘wile and guile’) to bend an individual or situation to one's will. LaVey wrote extensively on the subject of ritual in his works, The Satanic Bible and The Satanic Rituals, and on lesser magic in The Satanic Witch.
A quick check on Amazon showed that these books were readily available to purchase, including in eBook format. What the fuck? Crane was about to shout for Anderson, when he realised he was no longer a Sgt Major, sat in his office, with subordinates at his beck and call. No longer the man who spearheaded an investigation and who decided which way the inquiry went.
His fists instinctively clenched and his teeth ground together. It just wasn’t bloody fair, that was the crux of the matter. He’d had such a good life before the accident. For that’s what the army had been to him. His life. It was often said that being in the army came before family. It was true enough for the good soldiers, the ones who took pride in their regiments, those who fully embraced what the army stood for; as Crane had done. It was hard not to think that although he’d never let the army down, the army had let him down. They shouldn’t have made the unilateral decision that Crane had to leave. Some days he felt like a discarded toy. Some days he felt like throwing a childish tantrum and shouting, ‘It’s not fair!’ at anyone who would listen.
“You alright, guv?” DC Douglas’ voice floated over to him. “Only you’re going a funny colour. Is the hip playing up? Is there anything I can do to help?”
The simple kindness in the offer of help and the concern in Douglas’ voice cut through Crane’s malevolent introspection, causing the sides of his mouth to tug upwards into the semblance of a smile. Making a conscious decision to get over himself, and to swallow down the anger that always blossomed when faced with his change of circumstances and current limitations, he said, “Just a bit, but I’ll be alright. Thanks, though.”
Crane printed off the pages he’d been reading and clumped his way to Anderson’s office. He might not be in charge, but he was part of the team and had Anderson’s ear, and that would do for now.
30
When Crane arrived with his papers, Anderson was reading the post-mortem report on the dead girl.
“Oh, Crane, glad you’re here. Sit down and listen to this.”
Crane complied, his papers still clutched in his hand.
“Right, there are startling similarities between Hope and the dead girl. The post-mortem has revealed extensive blood loss with draining points on the back of both hands.”
Crane felt a bit faint at that revelation and was glad he was sitting down. “Is there nowhere else the blood loss could have come from?”
Anderson flicked through the pages. “No, no other injuries were found. So the pathologist had no option but to believe that the blood loss was through the hands.”
“Any sexual abuse?”
“No, nothing. No injuries, tearing or bruising and she was still a virgin.”
“Thank God for small mercies,” Crane said. “Has he got an age for her?”
“Yes, between 11 and 12 years old.”
Crane dwelt on that for a moment. “So how did they, whoever they are, make her pliable?”
“She died from an overdose of tranquiliser. Ketamine. Who the hell would do that? And why would they do it?”
Crane looked down at the papers still scrunched up in his hand. “I might have an idea about that. Here.”
After a few minutes of silent reading Anderson looked up and said, “You can’t be serious?”
“Deadly, if you’ll excuse the pun. Look, both these girls were being used for some sort of ritual and it’s clear that the marks drawn on their arms had some sort of religious connotations. You can’t disagree with the evidence, Derek.”
“No, you’re right there. But I was leaning towards it being some sort of Druid activity, or a strange gathering of like-minded people. Not this,” he handed Crane’s papers back.
“Sorry, but I think you’re wrong.” Crane was determined to make his case and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “It seems to me something more sinister than just a casual gathering. You don’t drain the blood of young virgins for nothing. In fact you don’t drain their blood for any sane reason. I think you just don’t want to face the fact that something evil could be behind all of this.”
“No, you’re right I don’t. After that awful article by Diane Chambers, I’ve deliberately stayed away from all of that hocus pocus. Dear God, can you imagine how the local community would react to the idea that there really is some sort of Devil worship being practised in their midst? It was bad enough when Diane’s article was published and so I can’t give any credence to such theories.”
“I know - there would be mass hysteria. But we can’t ignore it, Derek and it might even help us find the sick bastards that have done this.”
“No, sorry, Crane, I can’t agree with you. Not this time.”
“Fair enough I’ll keep my mouth shut. But only if you let me work that angle.”
“I just said…”
“I know what you just said. That’s why I’m saying that only I will look at the idea that Devil worship could be behind this. I’ll even do it on my own time at home, if it makes you feel any better.”
“Jesus, Crane. Oh alright. But not a word of this to anyone else. No one in the team and not even Tina.”
“Thanks, Derek,” said Crane and made his awkward way out of the door.
Closing the door of Derek’s office behind him, a relieved Crane turned to return to his work station. He’d got what he wanted. Long ago he’d realised that the best way to get what you wanted out of superior officers was to ask for something inflated. Something that would never be approved. Then subsequently, he would ask for what he had want
ed all along, which then appeared to be a reasonable request in the light of his outlandish demand. It worked every time and Derek had fallen for the ploy as well. With more than a modicum of satisfaction Crane hobbled his way back to his desk. But someone was there. Looking at his computer. And from the looks of it, checking Crane’s browsing history.
31
He would have to be careful. Anderson was beginning to give him looks. Those side-ways ones that meant Anderson couldn’t quite make his mind up about him, wasn’t sure about the new boy. Even though he’d been at Aldershot for over three months now, it didn’t seem enough to allay Anderson’s doubts. Bullock had thought he’d managed to integrate himself into the team rather well, but now he wasn’t so sure. This case was spooking everybody and as a result Anderson was turning on the person he knew the least. It was beginning to give him headaches.
Bullock’s head was down, and he was pretending to be absorbed in his work. But really he was somewhere else. Somewhere in his head. His attention wasn’t on the office, the file in front of him, or the computer screen by his elbow. He was thinking hard about Clay and what he was going to do about him. Or do to him. Yes, do to him sounded better. The bloody idiot had put the new Chapter of the Satanic Church at risk. He’d had to contact his other partners in… in what? What was the best way of describing those like-minded people who just enjoyed getting together for a bit of fun? No, fun wasn’t the right word. Those who were looking for something else, a something that would bring a bit of excitement into their humdrum lives. Looking for something to interest them, absorb them and allow the release of their pent up feelings and frustrations at their boring and worthless lives. So, partners in crime, which was the word he was first thinking of, wasn’t quite right. There shouldn’t have been any crime involved in it anywhere. If the first girl hadn’t escaped, then there would never have been a second who had died. The whole operation was in danger of tumbling down like a house of cards. He’d have to get in touch with them all, get them to lie low for a while, tell them he’d be in touch again when it was safe to continue.
“Are you alright, guv?”
DC Douglas’ voice broke through his reverie and Bullock realised that he’d been gripping the cheap ballpoint pen in his hand so hard that it had snapped.
“What? Yes, fine, why wouldn’t I be?” he said sweeping the broken bits of plastic into the bin.
“No reason, you just seemed, um, elsewhere.”
“I’m doing my job, Douglas, by concentrating on the case, which is more than you seem to be doing.”
“Sorry, guv, I’ll get back to it then.”
“What a good idea,” said Bullock, the drip of sarcasm clear in his voice, causing Douglas to scurry back to his desk.
He supposed he’d better get back to it too. There was no point in dwelling on the past. He’d have to look towards the future. Surely when all this had died down, he could start the Chapter meetings again. As long as no one found the farm house. Oh God, he’d never thought of that. Waves of fear ran up and down his spine, chilling him and causing a tremor to run through his body.
“Got anything yet, Bullock?”
The sound of Crane’s voice made him start.
“Sorry?” he mumbled.
“The missing persons search, have you found anyone that fits the description of our girl yet?”
Bullock clenched his teeth and took a deep breath. He hated Crane as much as he hated Anderson. Those two were thick as thieves, more so since Crane had been officially recognised as part of the team. He couldn’t see the attraction in the ex-army detective himself. Crane came across as cold, distant, authoritative and because of that he seemed to behave as though he were better than everyone else on the team. God, he wished he were still in Birmingham.
“No, not yet, Crane, it’s a long job. And if you don’t leave me alone I won’t get through it at all will I?”
Bullock was hoping his reply would put Crane in his place, but it seemed not. Crane simply stood there with a self-satisfied smile on his face, before turning and limping away. Bastard.
Bullock guessed it was in his best interests to get on with the job and turned his attention back to the computer. The search that he’d done of missing girls, age range 5-12, white, blond hair, had turned up a surprising number of them. But then, he guessed it would, as he was searching all of the UK. He flicked through more records, Brighton, Barnstable, Birmingham. Shit! Birmingham. Staring out at him from his computer screen was her – the dead girl - his dead girl. He looked around the office, surreptitiously, head still down, eyes up as he scanned the room. No one seemed to be paying him any attention; Douglas was on the phone, Anderson in his office, Crane typing something on his keyboard and the rest of the team were beavering away as well. He could feel the sweat breaking through on his face; each tiny drop bursting like spots that were popping and spreading puss all over his skin. His hand shook as he grabbed his mouse. Just two clicks were all it would take to eliminate the record entirely. Holding his breath, he made the first click. A little box came up. Delete record - yes or no? Unable to resist, he glanced around the room once more, then clicked ‘Yes’. It was done. He was safe.
“Douglas!” he shouted and the young man came scurrying over from the photocopying machine.
“Yes, guv?”
“Are those the ice cream company details you’ve got there?”
“Um, yes they are.”
“Good, give them to me and we’ll swap jobs. I’ll do the ice cream vans and you can take over the missing persons.”
“Why?”
“Because I bloody said so!” Bullock realised he was shouting. “It’ll keep us fresh, save brain fog. Alright?”
“Of course, guv. Whatever you say. You’re the boss.”
“Exactly, I am, now get on with it. I’ve done up to the Midlands, so you can go further up the country.”
Thank God for subordinates, thought Bullock. Now no one would know that a record had been deleted and more importantly wouldn’t know who had done it. One more problem solved. But as he realised how close he’d come to being found out, his stomach cramped and his bowels churned. Pushing back his chair and running out of the office, he only just made it to the toilet in time.
32
“Yes!”
The shout rang out around the incident room and everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at DC Douglas as though he were some sort of idiot. Douglas’ face burned as Anderson walked out from his office to find out what was going on.
He said, “I take it there’s been a development?”
“Yes, sorry, boss, but I think I’ve found her,” Douglas said, rising from his seat and hopping from one foot to another, as though he was a marionette, and someone was jerking his strings.
“Found who?” said Crane as he joined Anderson.
“Hope. I’ve found her missing person’s record. She was reported missing in Birmingham about three weeks ago. Bloody hell! I did it!”
Anderson closed his eyes and muttered a prayer of thanks. At last, a major breakthrough in the case. He looked at Crane who was swaying, holding onto his stick so tightly his fingers were white.
“Here,” he pulled up a chair. “Sit before you fall down.”
Crane sank into a chair, put his stick between his legs and leant on it.
“Douglas,” prompted Anderson, “Could you tell us a bit more?”
“Oh, shit, right, sorry. Her name is Bethany Franks from Birmingham… um… sorry, just a minute,” Douglas sat down and pulled his chair closer to the screen. “She’s 10 years old, nearly 11 actually, lives at home with her parents and two sisters and, oh my God listen to this, she was last seen a couple of streets away from her home and a witness remembers hearing the tune of an ice cream van in the vicinity.”
If it had been an office in the United States, Douglas might have expected a round of applause, cheers, hand shaking and back slapping. But as it was Aldershot, England, the reaction was far more understated,
muted even. Crane grinned, Anderson nodded and the rest of the team frankly just looked relieved. At last a lead they could work and more importantly, they knew who Hope was and could re-unite her with her parents. It was a major achievement, the information found by DC Douglas, but born from a bollocking from Anderson.
“Good work, Douglas,” said Anderson, all business. “Now print the record off, please and give copies to everyone. I’ll get in touch with the local Birmingham nick and bring them up to date. They’ll send someone round to her parents, who will no doubt be here in a few hours. Crane and I will handle that side of things, go to the hospital meet her parents and liaise with the medical staff. DS Bullock can you get a copy of the full file emailed over for us? Go through the witness statements and see if you can find anything that correlates with what we already know from this end. Douglas, I want you to concentrate on the details of the ice cream van, canvass businesses in the area and get photographs from them. We need to identify that bloody van.”
“Yes, guv,” said Douglas, still pink around the ears from his triumph, “I’ll get on it straight away.”
Anderson and Crane went back to the DI’s office where Anderson couldn’t resist a high five with his friend. But that was the extent of their celebration. It was time to get down to work, but then DC Douglas coming into the office and handing him a copy of the computer record, sparked a memory.
Anderson said, “Douglas, if I remember rightly, you were working on the ice cream van angle weren’t you and DS Bullock on the missing persons?”
“Well, um, yes, guv, that was what was initially going on.”
“Initially?”
Douglas nodded.
“So what changed? How come you’re now working on the missing persons?”
“Oh, DS Bullock asked me to, sir. He said a swop of jobs would keep us on our toes, you know a change is a good as a rest and all that.” Douglas seemed to realise Anderson was glaring at him, not smiling and stammered, “W, w, was that okay, sir? He sort of, well intimated that it was your idea, sir. And I guess it doesn’t matter, not really, because I found her didn’t I?”
Death Rites Page 9
