Soul Seeker (36 page)

‘First we check the vans.'

Charlie had spent many of the last waking hours trying to come to terms with her decision to end it with John Eisenmenger, and failing. She now realized that she had mistaken the man for the job. Her training had taught her just how unbelievably complex the human psyche was, how one human being could present a hundred different faces to the world, how it could hold – and, more importantly,
believe
– a hundred different opinions, many of which were completely contradictory. Why, she kept asking herself, should it matter to her what his professional self found so fascinating? She knew from her reading and her education that such a morbid (frankly disgusting, if she found enough truth within herself to admit it) interest could be totally confined in one small compartment, and that there was no danger of leakage into the rest of the mind. She knew also that she could not judge a person by such a thing, that all human beings had such small compartments, places wherein lived the extremes, the unmentioned, the underside, the worst . . .

Yet, and for the first time in her life, she could not apply her teaching to her own life. This man whom she loved had shown a side to himself that she found intolerable and, in consequence, she now found herself to be intolerable. She was ashamed of herself. He had managed a trick that she ought to find admirable, for he could live a normal life in the knowledge of such atrocity; it spoke of great equanimity, or a degree of resolution that was admirable.

The more she thought about it, the more she hated herself.

Fisher peered into the conservatory through cracked and grimy panes of glass; inside it he saw ancient rotted cane furniture, large numbers of dead, brown plants and trees, broken glass mainly from the ceiling and dust. He looked carefully at the dust but could see no sign that it had been disturbed. He moved on to the far side of the conservatory, then to the back of the house, out of sight of Beverley and Eisenmenger. To him, it all looked pretty deserted, and he was becoming more and more convinced that there was nothing to find here, but a fear of his superior's excoriating tongue kept him looking, even if it was in a somewhat desultory fashion.

There was a lot more stuff around here – more fencing supplies, huge rolls of polyethylene sheeting and large metal hoops for polytunnels, bags of animal feed piled on wooden pallets – and it formed a sort of maze that obscured the base of the rear wall of the Grange. He thought he'd better at least show willing, so he edged between a tower made of bags of cattle feed supplement and another of bags of animal bedding; behind these was a row of fencing poles, leaning against the wall. He was surprised to see that there was, in fact, a narrow gap to his left, behind the animal bedding. He moved along it; its end was about four metres away and, when he reached it, he was surprised to see a set of stone steps that led down to a door. The door was completely hidden from view by a high pile of fencing rails, and it was open.

SIXTY-FOUR

T
hey found nothing that ought not to be found in the back of the vans, though. Mud, smears of faeces that Eisenmenger was fairly sure was animal in origin, straw, irregular strips of plastic and lengths of pink plastic twine. Beverley said, ‘I can't see anything, can you?' When he shook his head, she sighed. ‘I'll get the forensics team to go over these.'

But before she could make the call, her phone rang; the screen came up with Fisher's name. ‘Where are you?

‘On the far side of the conservatory, behind the piles of sacks. I've found something interesting.'

‘What?'

‘There's a hidden passage between the sacks. It leads to a door that looks like a way into the cellars.'

‘OK. Stay put; don't go in. We'll be there in a moment.'

Eisenmenger felt an intense feeling of inadequacy; he felt as if he should be anywhere but where he was. ‘Shouldn't we call for backup?' he enquired.

He did not get the answer he wanted. ‘I want to check it out first; make sure that that moron hasn't got it wrong. I don't want to make myself look an idiot.'

They made their way quickly around the conservatory. At first sight they could see no way between the supplies; Beverley called Fisher again. ‘How do we get in?'

‘Look between the sacks of chicken manure and sheep feed supplements.'

‘Why don't you come out and show us?'

There was a pause, but Eisenmenger who had continued to nose around, said then, ‘Here it is.' He stood back to let her see. She cut the connection with Fisher, then walked down the path that Eisenmenger had found. At the end, they turned right, then came to the steps. Fisher was nowhere to be seen. Beverley muttered, ‘Fucking idiot.'

She made her way down the steps, surprised at how far down they led and somewhat concerned that the steps were slightly damp and slippery. Eisenmenger followed nervously. At the bottom she pushed the door a little further open. ‘Fisher?' she whispered.

Two barrels of a shotgun came into view, less than a metre from her face.

SIXTY-FIVE

B
everley quickly discovered that, if there was one thing more terrifying than having a shotgun pointed at you, it is having a shotgun pointed at you by a man who looks as terrified as Shaun Carter did. She also made several interesting discoveries about how quickly her mouth could desiccate and how bad a tremor could be. She tried to speak with the idea of uttering reassuring platitudes, but little more than a husky croak made it out of the voice box.

Eisenmenger was struck by how cold the air had become; there was a trace of damp, no more, as they stood there. There was some illumination, although it was far from adequate, coming from yellowed and cobwebbed globe lights in the ceiling. In it he could make out that they were in a vaulted corridor of unadorned brick, with rooms leading off it; each of the rooms was closed by a stout door in which was a single, small, barred opening. They were cells.

‘Where's my sergeant?' Beverley demanded. Carter gestured with his chin further up the corridor.

Eisenmenger retreated into intellectualism. ‘These are what? Padded cells for the lunatics?'

‘Move,' was his only reward.

Eisenmenger persisted, ‘I think that these were once wine cellars.' He said it in that detached, interested, academic way that he had, the one that she had come to know, the one that was somehow one hundred percent, totally and completely inappropriate for the circumstances. He did not whisper it either, so that it echoed, as if refusing to die. From ahead of them, perhaps fifty metres distant, came a deep sonorous reply. ‘They were.'

Beverley did not regard herself as in any way prone to fancies, frights or fear, but there was something about that voice, that resonance, that darkness and that coldness that made her very, very afraid. The door opened; it did not creak and, indeed, it was the silence of the movement that was truly terrifying. An impressively tall figure stepped through, bowing slightly because it was so tall. It was ugly, too, a fact not masked by the broad smile it wore. Eisenmenger was intrigued but perhaps not surprised to see it wore a dog collar. ‘Welcome.'

She didn't know what to say and, to judge from his expression, neither did Eisenmenger. The man said, ‘Shaun, bring our guests through.'

Eisenmenger was jabbed painfully in the middle of the back by the shotgun. They went along the corridor and through the doorway, the large man standing aside for them, exuding calmness and, inexplicably, joy. They found themselves inside a room in which were three long trestle tables on which were an array of open laptops. There were chairs set out for them, with Fisher occupying one of them. They were impelled to join him. Beverley asked him, ‘You all right?'

He nodded but didn't speak. Carter took up station behind them. The big man stood in front, his back to the tables. ‘You're arrival here is fortuitous,' he said.

‘Who are you?' demanded Beverley.

‘My name is Marcus Pilcher. I am the incumbent vicar of this parish.'

‘Do you know who we are?'

‘Specifically?' he asked with a faint stretch of the lips. ‘No. But in a more general manner, I know that you are police.'

‘You are holding us against our will. That is a criminal offence.'

The expression didn't waver, perhaps because he hadn't heard; certainly his next words implied this. ‘I have something to show you. Something that validates my work.'

Shaun asked, ‘Shouldn't we tie them up?'

Pilcher was aghast. ‘Goodness me, no, Shaun. They are my guests. They will help to spread the word.'

‘The “word”?' asked Beverley. ‘Is this some sort of religious trip you're on?' She sounded scathing and Eisenmenger guessed that this was a deliberate tactic.

‘I am a seeker of the truth. If you think that is a “religious trip”, then yes, I am.'

‘You're a homicidal lunatic, Pilcher.'

This was greeted with a shake of the massive head, nothing more. Eisenmenger guessed that Pilcher was too far gone to be affected by words. He looked at Shaun Carter. ‘What's your role in this, Shaun?'

He got no direct response, although Pilcher explained, ‘Shaun, too, is interested in my work.'

Beverley snorted. ‘Shaun is interested only in the money and the flesh, I would guess.'

If she had hoped for a response, or at least a reaction, she was left without fulfilment, for Shaun only smirked. She tried again, asking him, ‘Was it your idea to put the wrong head and the wrong body together, Shaun? Your idea of a joke?'

Pilcher's face registered brief concern, but he said nothing. Shaun's face registered anger and, from the glance he threw at Pilcher, some anxiety. ‘You're talking shit,' he mumbled.

Eisenmenger saw this, and saw that Beverley had seen it too, probably more than he had seen. She smiled. ‘This is serious science, Shaun. It's not a joke, you know.'

‘I know that.'

‘And the head in the slurry pit? How is that science? Or just you being a dick?'

With a grunt and sneer, Shaun stepped forward and brought the stock of the shotgun down hard on her right shoulder. She felt something snap – her collarbone, she guessed – and with it was washed over with pain. Pilcher shook his head. ‘There really is no need for this unpleasantness.'

Fisher looked aghast and began to rise, although Carter's menacing look in his direction made him think again. Eisenmenger could only look on as Beverley swayed slightly in the chair; her shoulder was hanging forward slightly and blood was seeping through the fabric of her blouse.

It took an effort in which there was a long pause, but after a deep breath she said at last, ‘You haven't got the brains of a woodlouse.'

At that, Carter stepped back, but only to aim another, mirror-image blow to Beverley's left shoulder. This time, the snap of bone was clearly audible and this time the pain was enough to wash her away. She tipped forward with a low grunt, then collapsed out of the chair. Both Fisher and Eisenmenger started to go to her assistance, but the barrels of the shotgun swung round on them; Shaun Carter was grinning and shaking his head, clearly hoping one of them would do something rash. Pilcher didn't seem to have noticed anything amiss. He was at the keyboard of a large, widescreen laptop. ‘Look at this,' he said. Eisenmenger could only describe the pride and satisfaction in this strange man's voice as truly chilling.

SIXTY-SIX

T
he screen came on, the picture shockingly clear. It showed Rebecca Lancefield, naked, head shaved, electrodes applied to her scalp, her chest and her ribs. She was awake and she was terrified; there were bruises clearly visible around her throat. Pilcher had by now the other laptops up and running, five in all; they showed the telemetric read-outs that Eisenmenger was used to from the webcasts. Pilcher came to stand behind Eisenmenger. ‘I did this experiment four hours ago. Watch!'

Eisenmenger knew that he ought to be immune to what he was being forced to watch, but he wasn't; far from it. He was experiencing the fear that he knew from watching well-made horror films – the awfulness of watching someone he had come to know and identify with go through a terrible experience – but this was orders of magnitude worse. He wondered what was going to happen, how she would die, and these were questions he would ask during such films, but then it would be idle, disinterested speculation; now they were asked with a degree of dread that he had never before known. He could only beg God that it would not be slow electrocution. Fisher looked just plain sick.

From behind Lancefield, a figure appeared; the face was not visible but the frame was clearly that of Pilcher. It was dressed in black and wore black leather gloves. Lancefield looked around; there was no sound, but she was talking animatedly, hysterically; she was crying now, struggling at her implacable bonds. The telemetry readings were going wild; her blood pressure was peaking wildly, her pulse was over one-fifty and rising, and her blood was becoming less acidic because of her rapid panting; the EEG readings were just chaotic.

Pilcher said ruminatively, ‘The guillotine was too quick. It happens in an instant. I see that now.' He was sorrowful, but only because he had missed a trick, not because he had indiscriminately slaughtered.

As if by saying something he could delay what was happening in front of him, Eisenmenger said desperately, ‘Why did you kill the old woman, Pilcher? You did, didn't you?'

He looked uncomfortable, even annoyed, at that. There was a distinct hesitation before he said apologetically, ‘She was dying anyway. It was an act of mercy . . .'