Relics (19 page)

The floor was drenched with blood.

The entire cellar reeked of the sticky crimson fluid.

Mick Ferguson spread sawdust thickly over the gore but it merely soaked through, filling his nostrils with an odour that reminded him of an abattoir. The comparison was particularly appropriate.

The remains of two cats lay scattered over the red-flecked floor. Torn lengths of intestine and lumps of bloodied flesh were strewn over most of the underground room. Ferguson kicked at the severed head of one of the dead animals and watched it roll across the floor, blood still draining from the shredded veins and arteries of its neck.

He turned and looked at the two dogs in the cages behind him, both of them smeared with blood. Rob Hardy sat on the bottom step of the stone staircase smoking a roll-up, his eyes also fixed on the dogs. Particularly the albino terrier. He was pleased that the bloody thing was locked away safely in its cage once more. It frightened the shit out of him. Even Ferguson had no real control over the demented beast. Only the thick chain it always wore prevented it from savaging the two men once it was released from its prison. But now, to Hardy’s relief, the bastard was penned up again. He gazed at it, finding his stare returned by those vile pink eyes.

‘Do you think he’s ready for the pit?’ Hardy asked, motioning towards the dog.

Ferguson nodded.

‘I heard that some big shot’s flying in from Belfast to see the fight,’ he said. ‘They go a bundle on dog-fighting over there, you know. If he’s interested I might sell the dog. For the right price of course.’

Hardy sucked hard on his cigarette, watching his companion scoop up the cat’s head and drop it into a plastic bag as he began clearing up the bloody debris.

‘You know, I’d bet my life on that dog tearing the shit out of anything sent against it,’ Ferguson said, nodding in the direction of the albino. ‘But there’s one test I’d like to give it before it fights.’

Hardy looked vague.

‘I’d like it to have a go at something that could put up a real fight.’

Inside the cage, the dog eyed both men and began barking.

The footpath stretched away before him, snaking between trees whose skeletal branches bent low as if threatening to reach down and scoop up anyone who came within reach.

Thick bushes also lined the dirt track, which even at its widest point was no more than five feet across.

Jonathan Ashton knew that he shouldn’t have taken this route home. He knew because his mother had told him on numerous occasions not to walk the footpath alone. And now, as he hurried along it, he knew that there were other reasons too.

The light of early evening still filled the sky, but beneath the canopy of leafless trees it was already preternaturally dull. Crane flies, some of the last to survive the summer, skimmed through the air and occasionally bumped into Jonathan as he walked, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his jeans.

Wraith-like swarms of gnats assaulted him every now and then and he quickened his pace, wanting to run but knowing that the extra effort was wasted.

He was over an hour late for tea as it was. His mother would be furious.

If she knew he’d used the footpath to get home she’d be even more angry. He’d be confined to the house for a fortnight, perhaps longer. Jonathan took one hand from his pocket and brushed the fine blond hair from his eyes, glancing around him as he did so. As is the nature of six-year-olds, his imagination was working overtime. He knew that he shouldn’t have come this way, shouldn’t have strayed from the main streets even though it cut his journey in half. His mother would rather he was even later than have him wandering along the dusk-shrouded footpath alone.

But it was too late now. He was half-way along the dark track. There was no point turning back.

As he walked he kicked with trainer-clad feet at the fallen leaves, humming to himself, noticing how even that soft sound seemed to echo in the stillness.

Only the occasional twittering of birds broke the solitude which bore down on him from all sides.

The bushes ahead of him moved, and Jonathan slowed his pace, wondering if he should turn after all and run back the way he’d come.

He kept walking.

The bushes moved again and this time he felt his heart quicken.

He was only feet away when the blackbird rose from the tangled mass of twigs and soared into the air, a dark arrow-head against the mass of gathering cloud.

Jonathan kept on walking, approaching a curve in the path which would put him on the final three hundred yards. It ended at a broken-down stile and he saw it as the winning post in some kind of race. Once he’d reached it he’d be fine. Up and over the stile then a short run home. He’d get told off by his parents but at least they wouldn’t find out he’d used the footpath. If they did, his dad would fetch the wooden spoon for sure. Jonathan didn’t fancy three cracks across the backside with that this evening. Again he wished he hadn’t decided to take the path home.

The dark trees seemed to glower down at him, but Jonathan tried to keep his gaze fixed on the path ahead.

He rounded the corner.

Another crane fly buzzed him and he knocked it aside angrily, stamping on the insect as it fell to the ground.

It was as he stood watching its last twitchings that he heard the sound.

Further up the footpath, behind him and out of sight, he heard footsteps.

Heavy rhythmic footfalls which grew steadily louder.

And closer.

Jonathan looked around frantically for somewhere to hide.

Should he try to climb a tree?

Hide behind a bush?

He decided to run instead.

Fear gripped him like a metal vice, squeezing tighter as each second passed.

He glanced behind him but could see nothing.

Whoever was behind him had yet to round the comer. But he could hear, the footfalls drawing nearer.

Louder.

Jonathan ran as fast as he could, almost stumbling on the uneven surface.

Closer.

He looked round again and almost screamed.

The figure was just rounding the corner, bearing down on him.

Clad completely in black, the figure pounded along the footpath towards Jonathan, drawing closer with each stride. Until finally the figure reached him.

Jonathan stopped running as the jogger in the black track suit went puffing past him, arms flailing wearily, breath coming in short gasps.

The youngster watched as the jogger reached the stile about a hundred yards further on. The black-clad man hauled himself over it with what looked like a monumental effort. Then he was gone.

Jonathan was alone once more.

He felt his heart thudding madly against his ribs but he still managed to chuckle to himself, amused at his own fear, glad that he had almost reached the end of the path.

He was still laughing when two strong hands shot out from the bushes and dragged him out of sight.

Wallace sat back in his chair and patted his stomach approvingly.

That was a beautiful meal,’ he said, smiling.

Kim made a theatrical curtsey before carrying the plates into the kitchen. She returned a moment later with two plates of gateaux.

‘I hope you’ve got room for it,’ she said. ‘It’s home-made.’

‘I’ll make room,’ Wallace said and picked up his fork. They had spoken easily and with unexpected warmth whilst eating dinner, and both had become certain of a strong mutual attraction between them. They felt at ease in each other’s company; Kim had found no difficulty explaining how her marriage had broken up, and similarly, Wallace had talked freely about his days as a constable in London and his move to Longfield as an inspector. What had surprised him most was that he had actually felt the need to tell her of his feelings when he was three and his mother had died of cancer, and when his father, years later, had married a much younger woman. His respect and even his love for the man had been eroded and finally des- toyed. Now his father too was dead, victim of a massive heart attack only three years earlier. He had no close family left.

With formalities over and confessions exchanged, sipping wine and eating the cake that Kim had made, both of them felt unusually relaxed.

‘So, tell me about the Celts,’ Wallace said. ‘What kind of people were they?’

‘They were strange in many ways,’ Kim said. ‘Great artists and builders, intelligent men, but also barbaric, violent people. But I can’t see how this will help your investigation, Steve.’

‘Just humour me, Kim,’ he asked, pushing a forkful of cake into his mouth. ‘I was reading today about the Druids and their practices. Is it right that they burned people alive and watched them die so that they could foretell the future?’

Kim nodded.

‘It was a kind of divination, a way of foretelling events to come. That was only done to prisoners of war or lunatics, though. The most popular method of foretelling the future was by studying the entrails of sacrificial victims.’

Wallace looked up, chewing more slowly now, listening to every word as if frightened he’d miss something.

‘The victim, or offering, was cut open and the Druid would pull out the intestines and spread them on the ground. The victim’s death throes were studied first, then the entrails themselves. Patterns were made with them.’

‘Like letter?’ Wallace asked, his mind suddenly filled with grisly visions of what he’d seen in Lawrence’s bedroom and Kirkland’s garage.

‘Sometimes.’ Kim said.

Wallace exhaled deeply.

‘What about flaying the victims, or removing the eyes?’ he wanted to know.

‘There were so many practices it’s difficult to say which ones were most common.’ Kim told him. ‘Each tribe worshipped a different god or goddess, and the details of sacrificial rituals depended on which deity was involved. At least 394 have been counted.’

‘But what about this business with the intestines? Was that widespread?’

‘It was one of the few things that was practised by nearly all the tribes.’

Kim looked puzzled as the inspector sat back, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead.

‘I don’t see how this can help you,’ she said.

‘When we found Stuart Lawrence and John Kirkland,’ he began, ‘ – and for God’s sake keep this information to yourself – both of them had been mutilated. They’d had their eyes torn out, they’d been flayed, and also their stomachs had been tom open. The intestines had been removed and formed into letters.’

Kim swallowed hard and put down her wine glass.

‘Now you see why I had to ask you about Cooper,’ Wallace said. ‘It looks as if the killer has some knowledge of this type of ritual murder.’

‘I noticed on your notepad, earlier, you’d written ‘Witchcraft’. Are you considering that too?’

He told her about the animals in the wood near Dexter Grange.

‘I also read something about the Druids cutting off the heads of their enemies and eating the brains,’ he said. ‘Why did they do that?’

‘Well, the Druids believed that different parts of the body were capable of carrying different powers. If they killed an enemy in battle they’d cut off his head and eat the brains. They felt that the head was the source of all power and knowledge so, by eating it, they’d inherit the strength and courage of the enemy they’d killed. They also thought that by doing that they would stop the soul of their victim from attacking them. They believed in the transmigration of souls. The ability of a dead person’s soul to invade the body of another, someone still alive.’

‘You mean like demonic possession?’ Wallace said.

Kim nodded.

‘By destroying the body in a physical form they felt they were destroying the soul too. That way it couldn’t take them over. Possess them.’

Wallace laid his fork gently down on the plate.

‘Why were Lawrence and Kirkland killed?’ Kim wanted to know.

‘I wish I could tell you,’ Wallace said. ‘Obviously someone doesn’t want that building project finished.’ He shrugged and reached for his wine glass, draining the last drops.

In the sitting room the phone rang.

Kim got up and walked through to answer it, leaving Wallace alone for a moment, gazing at his empty plate. He heard her speaking, then:

‘Steve, it’s for you.’ There was a note of surprise in her voice.

Wallace joined her in the sitting room. .

‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘I’m on twenty-four hour call, so I had to leave this number with the station.’ He took the receiver from her and she retreated into the dining room as he spoke. She knew from the few words he uttered that it was bad news. A moment later she heard the phone being replaced.

‘Kim, I’ve got to go,’ he said, heading for the hall, pulling on his jacket. ‘There’s trouble. A child has been kidnapped.’

He paused for a moment, looking at her, their eyes locked. Then both of them moved forward and embraced gently but firmly, their lips pressed together.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, breaking the kiss and turning for the door.

‘There’ll be other times,’ she said, smiling, watching as he hurried out to his car and started the engine. In a second he was gone.

Outside, the wind began to howl.

Like some kind of wailing lament.

‘All spirits are enslaved that serve things evil.’

P B. Shelley

She had seen the scientific proof, carried out the tests herself.

She had written it down in her notes. It was there before her.

Yet still she could not believe it.

Of the three skulls which Kim had carbon-dated, two were, as expected, of Iron Age origin. Around 1,000 B.C. or earlier, she guessed.

It was the third which had caused her consternation.