Absolution - The First Book Of The Vampire Immortalis Trilogy (3 page)

For some peculiar reason, it was the town's canine population that was paying particular attention to Peter Cameron this evening. First, a fat woman's bad tempered Chihuahua had yelped and snapped at him as he walked past the butcher shop. Further down the hill, a pernicious pug had almost jumped out of an old lady's arms to get at him. Then, to cap it all, a golden retriever, that had tied up outside the Co-Op store, growled at Peter Cameron, curling its lips and displaying a fine set of teeth as it did so. As Peter edged his way around the rabid animal and into the shop's doorway, he walked straight into a bunch of teenagers who were exiting the store.

“Out of my way,” grunted Peter as he pushed his way through them.

“Good day to you too, Mr Cameron,” said Lisa, more for the benefit of her friends than Peter Cameron who was already deep inside the shop and out of earshot.

Dressed almost exclusively in black and purple, Lisa and her companions were easily identifiable as goths, at least by anyone who knew what brand of youth cult a goth was. Only David bucked the trend with a garish red and green striped jumper. He wore it as a tribute to his favourite horror film character, Freddy Krueger, but combined with his spiky jet black hair and boyish good looks, he was more Dennis The Menace than
Nightmare On Elm Street
.

The Melrose goths called themselves The Family. It was a tribute to The Addams Family, the unintentionally frightening clan of misfits created by American cartoonist, Charles Addams, way back in 1938. It was a fitting choice these teenage friends were indeed like a second family to one another. They all knew Peter Cameron by sight and reputation because his eighteen year old son, Liam, although not with them this afternoon, was the oldest member of their close-knit group.

For Lisa and her friends, Melrose sucked big time. Living in a small town in the rural Scottish Borders, the goths now walking up the hill towards Market Square weren't exactly spoiled for choice when it came to things to do. Melrose's population of less than 2,000 consisted mainly of elderly folk who the goths called “coffin dodgers”, men who take great delight in watching an oval ball being chased around a field, and ladies who do little more than lunch. Or at least, that's how it looked through teenage eyes.

The goths spent most of their evenings and weekends down by the abbey and that's where they were heading following their visit to the Co-Op to buy provisions for the coming hours. From Market Square, they sauntered down Abbey Street, pretending to cast spells on a caravan of affronted coach-trippers walking in the opposite direction. Their destination, as always, was the small wooded park that overlooked the abbey.

By the time they had reached the alleyway that would take them from Abbey Street to the park, Peter Cameron had left the Co-Op with a half bottle of whisky in hand and was walking back up the hill towards the benches on Market Square. He had bought the Co-Op's own brand of blended whisky, not just because it was the cheapest on the shelves, but because it genuinely tasted better than its price sticker might suggest. Better than the cheapest branded bottles anyway. He had already decided that the first thing he would buy when he sold that cross was the finest single malt the Co-Op had to offer.

As he took a seat and unscrewed the whisky bottle's cap, he spotted a familiar face. Jim Scott had just taken £200 from the hole in the wall cash dispenser outside the Bank Of Scotland and was now striding purposefully across Market Square towards Dingleton Road. From there it was just a short walk around the corner to Monte Cassino, the Italian restaurant that occupied a substantial part of the former railway station. He was meeting a few old pals there for a meal to celebrate Bobby Henderson's 50th birthday.

Jim was so caught up in his own thoughts that he hadn't noticed Peter Cameron sat on one of the wooden benches that dotted the Square following its recent redevelopment. Even if he had, it's doubtful he would have acknowledged him. A big shot businessman like Jim Scott didn't give the time of day to the likes of Peter Cameron.

Jim Scott was three years old than Peter Cameron. They had gone to the same school, even sat on the same school bus, but for all that, they were never friends. Even at school, Jim Scott was full of his own self-importance, a bully who liked to throw his weight around. Like a lot of the younger boys, Peter Cameron had been on the wrong end of his nastiness more times than he cared to remember. At certain times, Jim Scott had made Peter Cameron's school days a living hell.

When the two men's paths crossed again later that night, it was in a much quieter part of town. Jim Scott had finished his meal and was walking home along High Cross Avenue, in the direction of the village of Darnick. Jim had made it as far as the rugby pitch that acts as a buffer between Melrose and Darnick, when Peter Cameron stepped out right in front of him, startling the big man and stopping him in his tracks.

“Hello, Jim.”

“Sorry, do I know you?” came the indignant reply from a man who was obviously not best pleased at having someone jump out on him like that.

“Of course you do, Jim,” said Peter with a big smile on his face. “It's Peter. Peter Cameron.”

The name didn't ring any bells and his face wasn't familiar either. Jim was brusque enough to say so too.

“Come on, Jim. Peter Cameron! You must remember me! We were at school together!”

Lightbulbs were still not turning on in Jim's head.

“We had some right laughs, me and you, Jim. Like the times you flushed my head down the toilet. Remember that Jim? You grabbing me around the neck and dragging me to the boy's toilets for a dunking? I seem to remember it was you doing all the laughing, Jim, but great times, eh? Great memories.”

Jim Scott had flushed more heads down toilets than most kids had had school dinners. He wasn't particularly proud of it now, but he wasn't about to apologise for the actions of his teenage past. “Listen, I don't have time for this. Now, if you don't mind, I'll say goodnight.”

He went to walk past the scruffy individual who had accosted him, but Peter blocked his path. “But I do mind, Jim. Two old buddies reminiscing about old times. What could be better than that?”

Jim Scott was beginning to lose his temper. He had had enough of this idiot's idea of reminiscing. “Look, move out of my way or I'll move you out of my way.”

“Jim. Jim, Jim, Jim. There's no need to turn nasty on an old friend now is there? What are you going to do? Flush my head down the bog again?”

Jim went to push past Peter, but despite being at least twice Peter's size, he discovered that the smaller man was not for moving.

“Come on Jim. Remember your training. Get into your scrum position, get your body down low, and push. Push!”

Jim lost it. He grabbed hold of Peter Cameron by the scruff of the neck and tried to manhandle him out of the way, but he couldn't budge him an inch. Instead, it was Jim who found himself being pushed backwards, at first only a step at a time, but suddenly so quickly that he lost his footing. Even then he didn't fall over because Peter Cameron continued to push him, now at an incredible speed. They went so fast that the human eye would have missed them hurtling across town towards the public toilets on Abbey Street.

Peter Cameron forced open the locked door and dragged Jim into one of the cubicles. Down on his knees, Jim was soon staring down the bowl of a toilet, its foul stench hitting the back of his throat and making him want to throw up his Italian.

“It's just like old times, eh Jimbo,” Peter said as he repeatedly pushed Jim's head deep into the stained ceramic bowl, forcing Jim's fat face into the stinking water at the bottom.

Then Peter reached up and pulled the chain so that the toilet flushed. Jim was coughing and spluttering while doing all he could to escape the vice-like grip of Peter Cameron, but his ordeal was far from over. Banging Jim's now bloody head off the sides of the toilet bowl, Peter continued to flush the toilet every time the cistern refilled.

This went on for three or four torturous minutes before Peter finally relented. He dragged the now sobbing Jim out of the cublicle and threw him in the direction of the sinks. “Remember what Mrs Dewar told us in primary school, Jim? Always wash your hands after using the toilet.”

After doing what he was told, a blubbering Jim used some paper towels to wipe his bloody face. He was pleading with Peter to let him go on his way, but his tormentor hadn't finished with him yet. Grabbing him with an arm around the neck, Peter rushed them both back to where they had met minutes before.

“Look, I just want to go home,” begged Jim. “I'm really sorry for what I did.”

“Of course you are, Jim, and I'm more than willing to absolve you of all of your sins. But first, let's play some rugby...”

* * *

Anna liked to walk Oscar last thing at night so that she didn't wake up to what his owner, Mrs Anderson, called “one of Oscar's little surprises”. Anna was about to put the key in the lock of the front door, to let herself and Oscar back in, when she started to hear a voice inside her head.
Dominus noster Jesus Christus te absolvat
.
Dominus noster Jesus Christus te absolvat
. By the time she had opened the door and let Oscar off his lead, she was gasping for air.

Dominus noster Jesus Christus te absolvat
. She struggled to form a picture of what was happening in her mind's eye, but again there was only darkness. Those words and darkness. And then nothing. No voices. Nothing.

Anna was beginning to feel completely out of her depth. The Hundeprest had struck again and his blood-thirst would mean further attacks were inevitable. Anna was now beside herself with despair and knew that she desperately needed help. She had failed the Immortalis for a second time in as many days and now had no choice but to contact Jacob again to tell him about this latest attack. Her enemies inside the Grand Council would have a field day.

CHAPTER FOUR

“How the hell did he get up there?”

Detective Chief Inspector Andrew Buchan didn't go in for small talk, particularly this early on a Sunday morning. He had just arrived at the murder scene, a rugby pitch on the edge of Melrose, and was looking up at the body hanging by its neck from the goalpost's crossbar. If the uniforms standing around him had any theories, they knew better than to voice them. DCI Buchan was only ever interested in facts.

“Do we know who he is?”

“Jim Scott, sir, the rugby player,” said the police sergeant. “He lived in Tower Road, Darnick. Family are being informed as we speak, sir.”

DCI Buchan had always been more interested in football than rugby, but even he knew Jim Scott by name. Any of the other police officers present would have known him by sight. Nicknamed, The Steamroller, in his day, he had played second row for a number of local clubs as well as for his country. Only a back injury had kept him out of the Scotland squad that so famously won the Grand Slam in 1990 with that truly memorable victory over England at Murrayfield. The last Buchan had heard, Scott had become a successful property developer in Edinburgh.

Jim had been a big presence on the rugby pitch and the years of good living following his retirement from the game in 1993 had only added to his bulk. DCI Buchan had already ruled out suicide because there wasn't a snowball in hell's chance that Jim Scott hanged himself from a bar ten feet off the ground. You would also have to be super human to lift a body that big that high by yourself, so if it was murder, it pointed to a gangland hit with multiple suspects. Probably business related. Drugs or debt.

“Forensics?”

“On their way from Edinburgh, sir.”

“Right, as soon as you get the go-ahead from them, I want that body down from there quick smart. Until then, I don't want any of the natives within viewing distance, is that clear?”

For a man who liked to deal in facts, what Buchan was to learn later that day was to rock him to his very core. Although Scott had a broken neck, the classic hangman's fracture, it wasn't until the body was on the autopsy slab that something truly bizarre was noted by the pathologist. There were two small puncture marks to the external carotid artery. Either this was the mark of a very sadistic murderer or Buchan's killer bore more than a passing resemblance to Count Dracula. The lack of blood at the crime scene more or less ruled out the sadist, but it was the complete lack of blood in the corpse itself that had Buchan puzzled and worried in equal measure. He might be looking for his first ever vampire.

“One other thing, Andrew,” the pathologist said before ending his telephone summary, “the victim either had a very strange taste in aftershave or he had been used as a lavatory brush prior to death.”

Sarah Cooper had worked as an Intelligence Analyst at The Government Communications Headquarters (GCHQ) in Cheltenham for seven years. She had joined the Security Service, MI5, immediately after graduating from Durham University with a first class honours degree in Philosophy, Politics and Economics, but after three years of enduring the bedlam of London, she craved a slower pace of life. That's when she successfully applied for a transfer to GCHQ and was now living in the Gloucestershire countryside with her husband Tim, a fellow senior analyst, their three children, Harry, Edward, and Pippa, and their English Springer Spaniel, Candy.

Sarah's main role was to monitor private and public communications for what are known as trigger words: keywords that are linked to terrorism, crime, or any other subject that the government and its intelligence agencies deem of interest and worthy of further investigation. Every day, the huge computers at GCHQ sift through billions upon billions of emails, telephone calls, text messages and documents, looking for evidence of wrongdoing. Within seconds of an email or text message being flagged up, complex computer algorithms go to work to determine whether the trigger words are being used in an innocent capacity or whether their use warrants further investigation. Only those that fall foul of the algorithms land on an analyst's desk and only those that arouse the concern of an analyst find their way to a senior analyst like Sarah Cooper.