Death Marks (The Symbolist) (7 page)

Under any other circumstances, Redd would have enjoyed the journey. Within minutes of leaving Brighton, he drove through the verdant countryside of the Downs; the fields rising up to forested peaks of hills. The Weald had a bloody history, the land of the Celts invaded by Romans. In the fourth century after the decline of the Roman Empire, England's shores became vulnerable to hordes of vicious Picts, followed by the Scots. Only the tyrannical Vortigern, leader of the Anglo Saxons, stood between freedom and annihilation. It was a dark period of history, where the name of King Arthur floated through the jetsam of blood and bone.

The cool tones from the GPS instructed him to turn into Meads Way. Many townies would give their eyeteeth for such a setting. He pulled up outside a thatched cottage that slumbered into the earth. Cows from the field opposite trotted up to the fence, their calm brown eyes inquisitive, tails twitching away flies.

An image of the profiler rose in his mind, greying hair in a bun, rosy cheeks, a tweed suit; the swelling ankles clad in brown stockings with maybe a tabby cat weaving through. He passed wild dog roses climbing up and through a large hedge of blackthorn and hawthorn, a haven for birds and butterflies. Scents of lavender and valerian wafted towards him, as he opened a decrepit gate almost falling off its hinges. Hollyhocks, larkspur and antirrhinums thronged in beds either side of the curved path, tufts of grass and buttercups sprouting up through edges of the flagstones.

The front door charmed him, the blackened old oak held a stained-glass window depicting a biblical theme, Adam and Noah clad in white, blue and brown robes looking contemplatively towards green hills. The whole scene instilled a sense of peace, serenity even, contrasting with the profiler's gruesome occupation.

The door opened before he could pull the wrought-iron pulley. Redd looked down into eyes the colour of dark chocolate, pale skin with the slightest hint of peach in her cheeks, contrasted with her ebony hair waving over her shoulders. A beautiful woman, so much for the grey granny.

Grinning, she said, 'You found us, come in.'

As he went to step forward, he heard a deep bark coming from the side of the cottage. Turning, he saw a blur of black and white, as a massive dog bolted towards him, grinding to a halt, just a foot away, mammoth paws kicking up sods of grass. Rising on his hind legs, the brute pawed the air, a huge pink tongue rolling between monstrous jaws. It was like looking into the mouth of a crocodile. Stuttering, he stepped back raising his hands. 'Fuck.'

'Don't worry; he's so friendly; he loves people.'

Redd turned horrified eyes towards her, his heart now thudding with fear. He didn't trust her word on this; he knew of obsessed dog owners ignoring the gnashing teeth and evil glint when praising the gentle nature of their pooches. However, this was no pooch; this was a nightmare. Stepping to the other side of the path, he twisted his foot and fell back on the lawn. Christ. He opened his eyes to find himself looking up into joy-crazed eyes, as the hound stood over him.

He saw sandaled feet running towards them. 'Sweetpea - come here - Sweetpea - that's enough.'

'Sweetpea - Sweetpea? How did she have to the nerve to call this monster Sweetpea? He nearly screamed, as the jaws fell to his face, only to feel a huge tongue furiously licking his nose and mouth. He gasped between licks, 'Christ - Christ - do something.'

Hearing her laugh, he saw two suntanned hands pulling at the studded leather collar. 'Sweetpea - that's enough now. Be a good boy.'

Kneeling beside Redd, she smiled. 'I'm so sorry, I honestly thought he was in the cottage. He's okay - I promise.'

As she bent to help him up, he found his wet nose in her cleavage. Oh hell, this was too much, how was he supposed to gain any kind of dignity now? A cow mooed from the field, exciting the others who joined in. He had no words, as he silently followed her, and the nightmare of a dog into a tiny flagstone porch, barely three feet by three feet. Leading him through the red quarry tiled passageway, the walls of lime and wattle looked fresh with white plaster. As she showed him into a large lounge, his gaze went to the inglenook fireplace, the lintel being one huge oak beam sagging to one side. The air was lightly scented with bunches of dried lavender and sweet-smelling herbs hanging in bunches from overhead beams. She waved to one of the overfilled chintz chairs and a small settee. Brightly coloured rag rugs lay strewn across the quarry stone tiles. 'Do sit down, anywhere you like. Won't be a sec.'

As she left the room, he looked at Sweetpea, who gazed back, panting. Shaking his huge head, he stooped and began licking the carpet. Frowning, Redd watched, why was he doing that? Maybe, there was some old food there or something. Hearing her re-enter, he tried to give some kind of smile that he was sure looked twisted.

Looking at the dog, she said, 'Sweetpea, stop it.' The dog took no notice and began licking furiously nearer to Redd's feet. 'I said, stop it. Do you want to be put out?'

Redd wished the dog could speak, that he would say yes.

Crossing her arms, she went up to the dog and without speaking, stood down looking at him, Sweetpea looked up and stopped immediately. They seemed to have some kind of telepathic rapport. After a few seconds of eyeballing, Sweetpea loped over to the couch, and bounded up in one movement, groaning as he settled his head on his paws.

Seeing the question in Redd's eyes, she said, '
He shares everything. He's a Greater Swiss Mountain Dog, nearly two years old now. They have to be one of the family, almost in constant physical touch.' Standing opposite him, she looked down at her top, the pale pink cotton jersey, smudged with dirt and grass stains. 'I'd better go and change. Can I get you a cup of coffee - tea?'

He wished he could go with her, help her change her top, instead he said, '
Coffee would be great, thank you.'

'It's instant - Gold Blend.'

'That'll do fine.'

'Sugar? Milk or cream?

'I'll have milk, and sugar please.'

'Won't be a sec.'

Leaving the room again, she left the door ajar. He took a wary glance at Sweetpea, who lay watching him, his brown eyes gentle. The dog became aware that Redd was looking at him, his tail thumped, as he got down from the couch. Redd knew that sometimes dogs wagged their tails in anger.

Sweetpea sat with his head on Redd's knee, a long loop of drool hanging perilously near. Redd heard Tess's light steps as she came downstairs. Passing the door, she said, 'Sweetpea. Back up.' Immediately, the dog looked with a hangdog expression at the open door. To Redd's relief, the drool missed his leg and fell to the carpet.

Turning his attention to the bookshelves packed with tomes, paperbacks, Kindles and a tablet, he wanted to browse, but didn't trust the dog - not yet. A forty-two-inch TV screen hung from a low-lying wall whilst a computer with two monitors stood on a small oak table. It looked incongruous in such a pastoral setting. He noticed part of a tree root carved into the head of what looked like some tree spirit, or shaman. Even though it smiled, it looked quite ominous, almost threatening. In an alcove, he recognized another carving of the pagan Green Man, with leaves and vines sprouting from the eyes and mouth, the beard a mass of smaller leaves. On the far wall was a painting of what appeared to be a water nymph, bathing in a pool, the sun casting rainbow hues on her pale skin. So Dr. Tessa Davies was not just some country buff with a profiling degree, there was more to this woman.

Re-entering with a full tray of coffee cups and cakes, Tessa placed it on the low coffee table covered in a white lace runner. He noticed she had changed into a pale blue top accentuating the ample breasts and slim waist. 'Here we are; I thought you might like a cake after your ordeal with Sweetpea. I am sorry about that, but he just loves everyone.'

Redd remained silent on that point, taking a slice of chocolate Swiss roll. 'Thanks, my favourite.'

'Really? Mine too. I just baked it this morning.'

He looked up eyebrows raised. 'You baked that?'

Seeing his surprised expression, Tessa laughed, '
No - I'm joking. It's from Tesco's.'

So, she had a sense of humour. Smiling, he said, 'Debbie told me you were researching a new kind of profiling. Could you tell me about it?'

'Well yes, it goes off on a tangent from the other two disciplines.'

Redd gave her an equivocal glance. For all his years in the force, although he worked with profilers, he never really studied their techniques in depth. He just wanted the results.

Seeing his expression, Tessa swallowed, wiping her fingers on a napkin. I incorporate the two techniques into my theory.

'I'm not aware of the academia involved, perhaps you could explain in layman's language. People seem to think crimes are solved solely by profiling. Look at FCIS - TV series. Then there's that programme The Coroner; he does it all on his own without leaving the morgue.

'Yes, they leave out the police investigative side of things in both programmes. And, they brush over the depth of study and techniques involved in profiling. You see, there are two approaches to criminal profiling, and they start at the opposite ends. On the psychiatric approach, they analyze the person's mental make-up to try to predict the crime. Now the behavioural approach is far more popular. The profiler concentrates on the crime and the data from the crime, etc. to get an idea of the subject's mind and personality - see what sort of a person he or she might be.'

'I see, so they can gather all that from the available data and exhibits?'

'Yes, they work from the basic premise that a person's thoughts guide his behaviour. So according to the crime, they can get an idea of the type of perpetrator they are dealing with.'

'I'm familiar with the latter.'

'I work primarily from symbols - universal symbols. I look at the symbolism of the crime, such as where it took place - why there? Was it an arranged killing, why such organization?
It's not just about the signature or M.O. it could be the setting itself, the things in the crime scene, for instance, if the body was placed under a tree - why? For everything in the scene there is a symbol. Nothing is random. Even if a killer confesses to not knowing why he committed a crime, or that he didn't care where it took place, there is a symbol in the scene, deeply embedded in the unconscious mind of the killer which we can pick up.'

Redd blinked trying to get his head in order. Already, it was an extraordinary day. 'I suppose I had better fill you in on the crime that is unless Debbie has already told you?'

'No, not really. She said she would leave it to you to explain.'

'Brace yourself.'

She looked at Redd's hands clasped together, almost gripping. He was tense; it would be bad. 'I'll take notes if you don't mind. I'll also record it - helps me to get it all firmly in mind.'

'So I take it you'll work with us?'

'Tell me more about the case, then I can see if I can help you.'

As he spoke, Redd kept his eyes on her. 'The perp placed them in Kingley Vale. Two young boys, eleven and twelve years old, stumbled across the dead bodies - naked, one male, and one female. It was mid-morning. They were hardly coherent when they tried to tell us.' He paused; his speech measured, slow. 'Both victims were decapitated; the female head is missing.'

'Oh my God.'

'The bodies were also eviscerated - cut from chest to pubis in the pattern of a cross. It was not a frenzied act; the crosses were carefully cut in the exact same pattern, the edge ragged; they also pulled out the entrails.' Seeing her face blanch, he stopped. 'You okay with this?'

She bit her lip, before taking a deep breath. 'I will be - give me time.' He saw the black pupils widening.

'It doesn't get any better. D'you want to go on.'

Raising her chin, she nodded. 'It's my job. It's just so....'

'Horrific? I know. Hardened detectives vomited, some young PCs were in tears. So, you're not alone here. We've got to catch these bastards.'

'Count me in.'

Redd felt a rush of hope. 'That's great. So I'll go back to the autopsy.'

'Okay, go ahead.' Placing her cup of tea on the table, she crossed her legs, the denim hugging the sleek lines of her thighs.

'The autopsy gave more information again; it appears, they sawed through the sternum, and ripped the rib cage open to extract the entrails. Having done that for some strange reason, they put them back into the body. It's crazy - absolutely insane.'

Her eyes widened in horror, uncrossing her legs; she leaned forward, as she said, 'Did they mark the liver and the heart?'

Surprised, he said, '
Yes. How did you know?'

'Just a guess at present, but....' her words faltered.

'What is it?'

She hesitated again. 'No, nothing - go on.'

'The pathologist pointed out the markings formed the pattern of a wheel; the central axis was a stick and three spokes.'

'I recognize that, I'm sure it's a Triskelion, the symbol of the ancient Celtic religions and the Druids.'

'I thought it was some insane message.'

'It is a message, but no-one really knows what it means, some guess it could be the birth cycle - the three trimesters, or maybe the pagan triple Goddess. The three spokes stand for three bent legs. It developed from the prehistoric triple spiral.'

'Pagans? I thought they were innocent, free sex, flowers, incense and drums - the ones who gather at Stonehenge for the summer solstice.'

'Some are like that, but I the group you're dealing with, most probably read up the ancient rites and are re-enacting them
—'

She stopped, suddenly putting her hands to her cheeks.

'What's wrong?'

'You said one of the victims was decapitated?'

'Yes - go on.'

She sighed deeply, 'Then I suggest it's the druids; they decapitated their prisoners and worshipped skulls. They would then clean out the skull and pour the victim's blood into that, drinking and washing their faces in it. It was considered sacred; they attained the wisdom of the Gods. They're called the Cult of the Severed Skulls. They also covered themselves with tattoos. It was a terrible - terrible time.'

'Tattoos? The victims had tattoos.'

'What kind?'

'Circles, swirling lines in circles. What do they mean?'

'The triple spirals again. It's all connecting.' Tess rubbed her forehead, putting her hand on her chest.

Seeing her distress, he realized he was dealing with a researcher, not a detective de-sensitized by vicious crimes, or the traffic officer clearing up the gruesome remains of a road accident. He said, 'Look if you don't want to go through with this —'

'I'm sorry; it's such a shock. But, I have to help you. I couldn't live with myself if I didn't. But my suggestions must sound way out to you.'

'No - no. You've given me a lot to think about.'

'Well my work is still in the research stage.'

'I think we're really gonna need you. Go on about these druids.'

She bit her lip. 'To them there was no death; it was all about balance, to receive life, you sacrificed life. The Druid priest truly believed he would immediately reincarnate in the next life, as a God and the ordinary person would instantly enter another body.'

'You've gone white. Maybe a brandy would help?'

She flushed. 'I think I need it.' Rising she went to the drinks' cabinet taking out two brandy glasses and a bottle of Hennessey.

'Ah Cognac no less.'

She smiled, pouring out a generous measure, and handing it to Redd. Sitting down across from him, she took a healthy swallow, feeling the warmth flow down her throat and into her gullet. 'God that's better. For a moment, I honestly thought I was going to pass out. I just can't believe someone would do something like this.'

After sipping his cognac in silence, giving her time to recover, he said, 'Okay, I have more information for you. The pathologist discovered a cocktail of drugs in the stomach contents, the main one being Salvia Divinorum. It has low toxicity and addictive levels, but quite lethal when mixed with the other agents.'

Tess frowned. 'I've heard of Salvia Divinorum, originally a shamanic drug; it's widely available on the net - cheap too.'

'Yeah, we looked it up. It's quite powerful on its own let alone mixed with others.'

Taking another sip of cognac, Tess said, 'If the perpetrators use it they wouldn't be in any fit state to plan, and carry out the eviscerations. They must give it to the victims.'

'Huh, we're back on evisceration - is that okay?'

'Yes, the cognac's helping. I have to face it Chief Inspector. First, could you tell me a little more about the crime scene, you say Kingley Vale? Where were the bodies placed exactly?'

Looking into those chocolate eyes he felt his pulse rate quicken. 'Call me Dan.'

She flushed. 'Okay, Dan it is. I'm Tess.'

'So in answer to your question, they were found in a grove of yew trees.'

She bit her lip. 'It's the Druid's particular sacred tree, besides the Oak that is. They must be offering the victims as sacrifices.'

'Sacrifices?'

'It was a different mind-set in those times; today neo-druids are completely different and are non-violent, they see neo-druidism as way of life, a philosophy. She paused; her hands gripped together, the knuckles white. 'Actually - I have to tell you this before we go any further, I'm a neo-druid.'

'Oh ... err ...' for a few seconds Redd was lost for words. Would this complicate matters? 'So, you'd have lots of contacts with the neo-druids?'

'Yes - there are a lot of interactions between the groups, especially at the festivals.'

He saw her face whiten. 'You okay?'

'No, not really, these crimes you've told me about cast a slur on today's druids.'

'These are different Tess - psychopaths looking for an excuse to kill.'

'Mud sticks.'

'Nonsense - look at this way, I think I've struck lucky. You can lead us into the groups.' Trying to make her feel easier, he said, 'You any good on the ancient languages? A scroll of rough old parchment was left with the body; we can't make head or tail of it. I have a copy of it here.'

Taking it from him, she studied it for a few moments. 'This is the Ogham alphabet of the ancient Celts; they used a system of lines in various positions. Just let me get down one of my books.' Rising she went to the bookshelves, picking out a black leathered volume. Coming back, she leafed through. 'Ah yes, here we are - a list Oghams and the meanings.' Frowning, she picked up the pad and pencil from the table, her finger trailing down the lists, as she wrote. 'Ah yes - got it. How strange ... so let me see ... yes, I have it. It says, "The Oracle is defiled." That sounds ominous.'

'So the Druids used the Oracle?'

'The ancient ones - yes. They had many forms of divination, some quite benign - leaves, clouds, flight of birds, the weather. But, they had a gruesome side; they used the human body in its death throes to predict important events.'

'Christ.' Her words cast a shadow over his heart. 'It looks like we're in deep shit. We had our suspicions that it was more than one, but a group? How the hell would a group work as one in such a vicious crime?'

'It could be one or two leaders working together, moulding the group. Being psychopaths, they know the members' strengths and weaknesses; know how to push their buttons. Aided by drugs, they enslave them.'