Relics (27 page)

There was still no sound or movement inside Dexter Grange. No one had heard, or else they had chosen not to hear, Wallace thought as he made his way across the room to the door which he knew led out into the corridor.

He paused for a moment, then stepped out onto the polished wood floor.

He moved quickly from room to room, pushing open doors, something at the back of his mind asking him what the hell he was going to say should Dexter appear. But the inspector swiftly administered himself a rebuke. He was searching for evidence. More to the point, three missing children. He didn’t need a search warrant and if Dexter started mouthing off then
he’d
be hauled down to the station too.

But there didn’t seem to be any sign of either the recluse or his young girlfriend. If, Wallace thought, that was the right word.

As he reached the front door he saw that two large bolts had been slipped into position.

Obviously Dexter didn’t want any visitors.

Wallace glanced to his right, towards the broad staircase.

The steps seemed to climb precipitously up to a landing which looked strangely dark and forbidding. Wallace told himself that some curtains up there must be drawn, cutting out the daylight, and the sky was grey and overcast in any case.

He began to climb.

The stairs were uncarpeted so he trod as softly as he could.

The sound of his shoes echoed in the stillness and more than one of the steps creaked protestingly under his weight as he drew nearer the top of the flight.

He thought about calling Dexter’s name but decided against it.

He reached the landing and stood still, looking around at the closed doors which faced him. The solitude was almost oppressive on this floor and Wallace, for some unaccountable reason, felt strangely apprehensive about approaching the first of the doors.

‘Come on,’ he whispered to himself, annoyed at his own reticence. He strode towards the door and flung it open.

There wasn’t a stick of furniture in it. No carpet either. A thick film of dust covered the floor and Wallace coughed as the choking particles swirled before him, disturbed by his sudden entrance.

It was the same in the next room.

And the next.

He approached the fourth door, his initial apprehension having given way to annoyance.

He threw open the door and walked in.

The sight which met him caused him to freeze momentarily.

He frowned, his eyes drawn to what lay in the centre of the room.

Drawn on the bare boards was a huge pentagram.

At the apex of each of the five points of the star there was a small silver bowl. In the centre lay another, larger than the others.

Wallace moved closer, kneeling beside the carefully drawn shape. He touched the closest line, surprised to find that it was fresh. Chalk smudged his finger tips.

What the hell had Dexter got in mind? Wallace thought. And, more to the point, where was he?

The policeman straightened up. Taking one last look at the pentagram, he walked out of the room and headed down the stairs.

He made his way back through the house and out through the French doors, glancing towards the wood which lay about a mile or so from the building. With the dark clouds gathering above it, the sight made Wallace shudder.

‘Witchcraft,’ he muttered to himself.

Witchcraft. Ritual murder. Kidnapping.

A thought struck him, at once logical yet absurd.

Could both Cooper and Dexter be involved together in the killings and kidnappings? Both men had motives for wanting Cutler and those who worked for him dead. Both had knowledge of ritual murder.

He slid behind the wheel of the Sierra and started the engine. He threw the car into a screeching turn and drove rapidly away from Dexter Grange.

‘You were in breach of regulations, Wallace.’

Chief Inspector Gordon Macready sat back in his seat, his fingers clasped across his stomach.

‘You had no right to break into Dexter’s house. He could prosecute you for trespassing and he’d be perfectly within his rights. You had no search warrant, no authorisation of any kind.’

‘I think that reason to suspect he’s holding three kidnapped children is authorisation enough, sir,’ Wallace snapped, trying to light a cigarette.

“There are certain procedures to be followed in a case like this . . .’

Wallace cut him short. ‘My only concern is to find those kids. They could be dead by morning.’

‘Your concern should be with carrying out correct police procedure,’ Macready told him, his voice taking on a menacing tone. ‘You also had no business calling a car and two constables to keep watch on Charles Cooper’s house.’

‘How the hell else are we supposed to find him?’

Macready sat forward in his seat, his dark eyes fixing the younger man in a piercing stare.

‘Look, Wallace, I came to Longfield to replace you because you weren’t getting results. I also told you that you were to take your orders direct from me. Now
I
didn’t order surveillance on Cooper’s house, did I?’

But you do agree that it’s rather strange that the two prime suspects in this case are . . . unobtainable?’ he said, acidly.

‘Strange, yes, but I don’t attach the importance to it that you do.’

‘Maybe it’s a pity you don’t, sir,’ Wallace replied, sucking hard on his cigarette.

Macready studied him for a moment, the knot of muscles at the side of his jaw pulsing angrily.

‘You also had no business showing the results of our investigation to that woman,’ he said.

‘We
had
no results until I showed her,’ Wallace gasped. ‘She was the one who told me what those bloody letters stood for!’

The older man was unimpressed.

‘And you expect me to believe that these murders and kidnappings are being done by someone who practises witchcraft? Just because the letters happen to spell out some mythical name? What do you take me for, Wallace? It’s only a coincidence that the letters spelled out a word this woman recognized. We don’t know that the word is Celtic. More likely it could be a foreign word and mean something completely different. For God’s sake, man, you’re a policeman. You’re supposed to think rationally, not believe the first piece of mystical hocus-pocus you hear.’

‘How do you explain the accidents on the building site, then?’

‘That’s precisely what they were. Accidents. Nothing more. There’s nothing sinister about them.’

‘Two men died.’

‘That was unfortunate. You have no proof to support any…occult links.’

‘But the murders have a basis in ritual, you have to agree with that. A ritual which could apply equally to witchcraft or to Celtic sacrifice. And the kidnappings too. Children are or were used in both Celtic ceremonies
and
the Black Mass.’

Macready sucked in a deep breath.

‘No, I’m sorry, Wallace,’ he said. ‘I can’t accept that there’s a supernatural element involved here.’

‘Well then, if you won’t do anything about it, at least let me. I
do
care if those kids are killed.’

‘One more word out of you and you’re suspended. I mean it.’ Macready pointed an angry finger.

Wallace sucked hard on his cigarette, locking stares with the older man for a moment.

‘From now on you do everything by the book, got it?’ Macready continued. ‘You report to me, you don’t do anything without my say-so. You step out of line once more and you’re finished.’

The inspector took one last drag on his cigarette, then ground it out in the ashtray next to his superior.

‘I’m going to drive around, if that’s OK, sir,’ he said sarcastically. ‘Perhaps I can help the men who are looking for the children.’

‘Keep away from Cooper and Dexter,’ Macready warned him. ‘They’ll be brought in for questioning when, and if, we find enough real evidence to link them to this case. Understood?’

Wallace nodded, turned and left.

Outside the office he looked at the door, as if glaring through the wood itself at his superior beyond.

‘Bastard,’ he hissed.

He headed out towards his car.

It was 12:08.

‘Come on, come on.’

Mick Ferguson tapped on the wall agitatedly as he waited for the phone to be picked up at the other end. He waited a full minute, finally tiring of the persistent ringing in his ear. He slammed the receiver down, waited a moment, then tried again. This time he only had to wait a few seconds.

‘Dexter?’ he snapped.

‘This is Henry Dexter,’ the voice on the other end informed him.

‘Where the fuck have you been? I’ve been ringing for the last half hour,’ Ferguson snapped. ‘Do you want this stuff I’ve got or not?’

‘Of course I want it, but don’t come to the house.’

‘Bollocks,’ the other man interrupted. ‘I’ve got two kilos here, I want to unload it quick. I’m coming straight out there now.’ He paused for a moment. ‘And by the way, Dexter, it’s going to cost you £3,000 for this little lot. You could say my supply’s about to dry up. The bloke I bought it off was collared by the law yesterday.’

‘Will they be able to trace his contacts?’ Dexter asked, apprehensively.

‘Do you think I’d have touched the stuff if I thought they could?’ Ferguson added scornfully and put the phone down. He turned to see his wife standing in the sitting room doorway. ‘I’ve got to go out,’ he told her.

‘More business,’ she said. ‘I overheard.’ The anger in her voice turned to something akin to pleading as she approached Ferguson. ‘Mick, just dump the heroin. If the law find you with it they’ll lock us both up. What with that and those bloody dogs.’

‘Get out of the way,’ Ferguson snapped, trying to push past her, but she grabbed his arm.

‘No, you bastard. You’re not dragging me down with you. I’ll ring the law myself, tell them it was you. I’ll tell them what’s been going on.’

Ferguson eyed her malevolently for a second.

‘You wouldn’t dare,’ he hissed.

‘Wouldn’t I?’

She took a step towards the phone.

Out of the comer of her eye she saw her husband lunge forward, but before she could avoid his flailing arms, he was upon her.

Wallace reached for the packet of Rothmans on the parcel shelf of the car, cursing when he found that it was empty. He tossed the empty pack out of the window, startled when the radio crackled into life, the message coming across in metallic tones:

‘…Respond…We’ve had a call about a disturbance at number twenty-five Victoria Road . . . check it out, will you…’

He listened for a moment longer, then picked up the handset.

‘Base, this is Wallace, over.’

The man at the other end sounded somewhat startled to hear his superior’s voice.

‘Oh, hello, guv, it’s Dayton here,’ he said.

‘I know who it is, Bill. Look, what’s this about a disturbance in Victoria Road?’

‘Some woman rang up about ten minutes ago, reckons she heard screaming.’

‘Who’s the occupant of number twenty-five?’

‘Mick Ferguson and his wife.’

‘I pulled that bastard about six months ago for GBH but he got off. Have you sent a car? Well, I’ll cover it too.’ He replaced the handset and put his foot down.

He was less than ten minutes from Victoria Road.

The woman was on her knees in front of the house.

As Terry Laidlaw brought the police car to a halt close to her, he could see that the blouse she wore was ripped in several places. One flap hung open to reveal her left breast. She turned briefly, and in that split second Laidlaw saw the blood which covered her face.

‘Jesus,’ he muttered, clambering out of the car.

Constable Roy Denton followed him toward the woman who they now knew was Carol Ferguson.

She seemed oblivious to their presence as they approached her, her eyes never leaving the house before which she knelt. The blouse she wore was also stained with blood, and as the two policemen drew nearer they could see vicious gashes on her face. One eye was swollen and surrounded by blackened, puffy flesh. It looked as if it had been pumped up. A repulsive, throbbing balloon.

Her nose had been broken; the bone was shattered and the flesh misshapen.

As the two policemen drew level with Carol they heard her muttering to herself, the words forced out through lips which were split and weeping blood.

‘Bastard,’ she mumbled. ‘Bloody bastard.’

Denton knelt beside her, slipping one hand beneath her arm to help her up.

‘Come on, love,’ he said, quietly.

‘Get off me,’ she rasped, twisting loose. Then she suddenly seemed to find untapped reserves of strength. She dragged herself upright and bellowed towards the house.

‘Some man you are. You’re a fucking animal just like those bloody dogs you keep.’

‘Let’s get her into the car,’ Denton said to his companion and they took one arm each and tried to guide her towards the waiting vehicle.

‘Come on, now,’ Laidlaw said, urging the defiant woman to move.

‘Leave me,’ she said, turning to face him, forcing him to look upon the hideous extent of her injuries.

Her features were little more than a crimson mask. A patchwork of cuts and bruises. The constable also noticed several angry red marks on her throat.

‘I’m going to call a doctor for you,’ the constable said, using all his strength to guide the injured woman towards the car as she still resisted. Denton asked if he needed help but the other man shook his head.

Both men turned as the Sierra skidded to a halt about ten yards away.

Wallace jumped out and strode over to the waiting men. He took a brief look at the battered face of Carol Ferguson and shook his head.

‘Is Ferguson still inside?’ he wanted to know.

Before either of the uniformed men could answer, the inspector had set off towards the front door. Denton followed him.

‘You cover the back,’ he told the constable. ‘If Ferguson comes out, flatten him.’