by Jonathan Day
searched drawers, and lingered a little too long over pornographic photos before finding an ancient album beneath them. The snapshots in this were even more interesting. They were of the satanic cult in their black robes. DI Riesen’s summary of those who dabbled in the devilish had been understated. Perhaps he thought his enthusiastic junior was not ready to comprehend anything beyond his Sunday school lessons, and he would have been partly right, if only because of the historical context. These characters could well have walked off a heavy metal LP cover.
Had those elderly, innocuous victims with bullets through their brains really been capable of sacrilege extreme enough to unsettle the granite persona of Peter Riesen? Paul Fallon found no mention of historical criminal activity in the records so something else, which he couldn’t fathom at that moment, must have been going on.
The quality of the images was good enough for him to identify Cecil and Vera, despite the heavy make-up and intervening years. The ones with facial hair were more difficult. The junior detective bagged the album with the intention of running it through facial recognition.
Job done, DC Fallon decided to see how his DI was progressing at the address that most interested him. The last person to “see” Oberon Jones alive lived in a basement flat with spindly geraniums in a window box blocking most of the light from its parlour, and a red lantern in the porch hanging by a single flex.
DI Riesen had long since gone. The junior detective would have made his apologies and left if its resident had not pulled him into her living room. Tiffany was in her late 40s and welcomed younger flesh after being interviewed by a dry, celibate, middle-aged copper.
She pushed Paul Fallon into an armchair and thrust a glass of cheap sherry into his hand. It was the last of the bottle and it was obvious where the rest had gone to as she toppled onto the sofa.
‘Odd one, your boss.’
He said nothing and sipped the drink.
‘Well I wouldn't have guessed Oberon had ever been a member of some weird cult. Never said anything about it to me - then we were too occupied to talk very much. Told me he was an interior designer, though by the state of his flat I wouldn't have thought it.’
‘You were able to help DI Riesen then?’
‘He just wanted to know about people coming and going, but mainly about Oberon's friends. Seemed more interested in tracking down the other members of this cult than finding out who killed Oberon last night.’ Tiffany started to drift off into an alcoholic doze.
It was obvious DI Riesen had another agenda. Knowing that he was an ordained priest gave the investigation an uncomfortable slant.
‘Yes …’ Tiffany rambled on. ‘There was only one name I could recall Obi talking to on the phone … Something to do with calendars …’ then she briefly muttered something incomprehensible before falling asleep.
DC Fallon sat gazing at the matronly woman wearing too much makeup, sprawled amongst the embroidered cushions, as an alarming idea tingled into life.
The detective placed a throw over Tiffany's exposed knees and quietly left.
All that afternoon, as he ploughed through the contents bagged from the flat, that disconcerting suspicion gnawed away at him. He told himself not to be ridiculous. To prove that his instincts were playing tricks on him he checked up on the whereabouts of DI Riesen at the time of the previous murders, only to find that they had always been on nights when he was off duty. That shouldn't have been too surprising if it were not for the witnesses who had claimed to have seen a tall man wearing a clerical habit in the vicinity of two of them. PC Fallon tried to reassure himself that anyone out and about at that time must have been drunk.
But Peter Riesen had also been in Spain at the time of Vera’s murder.
If a man of God wanted to hunt down members of a satanic cult, the best chance of discovering where they were was on a police database.
The young detective had to convince himself that he was wrong. However stern and secretive, his boss was an honourable man who wouldn’t even park on a double yellow line let alone hunt down geriatrics who used to be members of some ancient cult.
DC Fallon worked until the early hours, examining the files of past murders DI Riesen had investigated. During those years several victims had been found with a bullet through the brain, and some of those had belonged to more recent devil-worshipping societies. Their killer had been nicknamed the Hammer of God.
When DC Fallon eventually returned home he was too disturbed by his findings to sleep. The next morning, the last thing he needed was to be called into the chief superintendent's office.
Eyes red, head throbbing and stomach rumbling through lack of breakfast, he gazed blearily at the senior officer.
‘You have been searching the database for over six hours, haven't you, Fallon?’ his immaculately turned out superior demanded.
The dishevelled young man's jaw dropped, unable to utter a sensible reply.
‘You have come across something we should know about, haven't you?’
What could the DC say? He would sooner be sent back to the beat than betray the man who was mentoring him into promotable material.
‘I was just following up a hunch, Sir.’
‘A hunch brought about by the fact that DI Riesen is an ordained priest?’
DC Fallon swayed a little.
‘Sit down, man, before you fall over.’
He obeyed. ‘I know the boss, Sir. He's as straight as a die.’
‘Just neglected to mention that he hadn't relinquished the cloth before joining us.’
‘I trust him, regardless of anything that points to the contrary.’ He didn’t need to add that he had discovered plenty which did just that.
The chief superintendent gave the DC a searching look. ‘You've worked out who the next victim of this Hammer of God is going to be, haven't you?’
Only two more members of Cecil and Vera's cult survived, and one of them was dying in a hospice.
The DC nodded cautiously. ‘It will probably be Julian Vance.’
‘And you had every intention of being there without telling anyone? - Don't answer that! Just be very careful from now on and play to my rules.’
Julian Vance had been a long-term partner of Cecil’s before the relationship broke up. They shared the proceeds of the house, Cecil going to his retirement flat and Julian to the ground floor apartment of a converted warehouse.
However trendy the area may have been during daylight, after the streetlights were switched off for the night it could have been an ideal hunting ground for Jack the Ripper. The only illumination in the narrow street came from a full moon, and there was a chill in the air which reminded DC Fallon that his combat skills did not match his investigative ones. Even with a protective vest he felt out of his depth. He could only hope that this wouldn’t be the night, one of the few when DI Riesen was not on call.
After waiting a couple of hours, which helped compound his insecurity, a tall figure in an ankle length habit approached from the far end of the street. DC Fallon ducked into a neighbouring alley as the would-be assassin approached the door of Julian Vance’s apartment. In the intermittent moonlight it was too easy to believe that he was Peter Riesen. Torn between calling out to reason with him and following orders, he held his breath and watched.
God's avenging angel hesitated, wondering why the apartment’s door opened at his touch. But not for long. His mission did not permit the weakness of caution.
He strode inside.
DC Fallon broke cover and followed.
The spacious, sparsely furnished room was dimly lit, the intended victim silhouetted in an armchair as he waited to be purged from God's universe by the Hammer of God.
The interloper drew a gun from his robe.
It was no good. DC Fallon could stand it no longer. ‘DI Riesen! No Sir! Don't do it!’
The assassin spun round.
It wasn't his superior, and the gun was now pointing at him.
Protective vest or not, Paul Fallon felt hi
s knees buckle at the prospect of being shot. The Hammer of God put his bullets through the brain. The young constable needed a miracle to get out of this unscathed. Armed response was a minute away, but that was too long.
Then the miracle happened.
The figure in the armchair rose to its full height.
How could DC Fallon have mistaken this killer for the huge presence of his superior?
DI Riesen spread his arms as his voice resonated about the large room with the authority of the Metatron. ‘Father Raphael, this must now stop! This is not the will of any God we know! You have been doing the Devil's work! Repent these murders and return to God!’
Father Raphael had only one thing on his mind. ‘You broke the seal of the confessional!’
‘I have told no one. I have kept to my vows, unlike you who see fit to commit murder in the name of some imaginary entity. This young man has done neither you, nor God, any harm.’ DI Riesen pointed to his heart. ‘If you cannot see how misguided you have been, this is your next target.’
DC Fallon knew that his superior always refused to wear a vest. ‘No!’ he yelled.
It was too late.
DI Riesen was thrown back into the armchair as the bullet struck him.
Then there was the report of a shot from the doorway.
Father Raphael crumpled into an untidy heap, his habit falling about him like the wings of a dead bat. He had also believed that doing God's work was a better shield than a protective vest.
DC Fallon dashed to his superior. ‘Oh my God! Oh my God! Get medical help - quick!’
He ignored the commotion behind them as he pulled DI Riesen's shirt open in the hope of staunching the fatal wound, but it was too dark to make out.
The room was suddenly illuminated.
There was no blood.
Embedded in the large man's chest was a steel crucifix. It had buckled into his flesh with the impact of the bullet.
Only winded, DI Riesen gasped as he accused Paul Fallon. ‘You really thought that I was the Hammer of God?’
‘No, no, no! I knew you weren't - you couldn't have been! Believe me!’
The large man pushed himself up. He looked disconsolately at the other dead priest. Against all odds, he had been hoping to save Father Raphael’s soul.
Peter Riesen took a stole from his pocket, kissed it, and knelt beside the younger man to administer the last rites.
An eerie silence fell over the room until the chief superintendent’s voice announced, ‘Of course, Riesen, you do realise that this means your resignation, don't you.’
‘My mission has been achieved, although not in the way I would have chosen.’
‘Good man!’ The senior officer turned and left.
DI Riesen closed Father Raphael’s eyes, and then looked up at Paul Fallon. ‘What are you so crestfallen for?’
The young detective shrugged. ‘We were getting on so well.’
‘You can become an altar boy as soon as I find a new parish, if you want.’
‘Will your church allow you to have one after this?’
‘Probably for the novelty value. And this Pope is pretty broadminded. I only know that my police career has now been well and truly terminated.’
