Fifty Two Weeks of Murder (22 page)

“I was at Oxford when it happened. I was doing my PhD at the time, happy in the knowledge that I’d spend my days in a lab, researching oncogenes. The Dean calls me into his office one day and there was a police officer there. He was telling me that there’d been a fire and that my folks were gone, but I couldn’t understand, couldn’t comprehend what he was saying.” Ben finished his drink with swallow and grimaced at length. He held out the empty beaker to Helen, who topped it up for him.

“There were no answers,” he said, thanking Helen with a smile. “No one knew why. They couldn’t find the cause of the fire and that hurt more. Their death’s were senseless enough as it was, but the fact that there was no empirical reason that explained what happened hurt more. It took me a long time to move past that.” He looked at Anders, a great sadness in his eyes. “I don’t know what drives you so hard to do what you do, but I understand it. Every death deserves an answer and I play a part in that.” Anders stood up and embraced Ben, a tear running down her cheek.

“You most certainly do,” she said softly, as Helen joined in, embracing the pair of them.

“Group hug,” she said tearfully and made to speak further, but Anders’ phone rang. It was Mal.

“Fire at Temple Church. Get over here now.”

Chapter 8

Jonathan made his way to London with ease. Once he’d slipped his tail, it was a short walk to the train station and within a few hours he was hidden among a throng of humanity. He saw his face on the front pages of the evening newspapers, but no one paid him any heed. No one really looked at you in London. Jonathan was non-descript, plain face, average height, average build, mousy hair. He could be anyone. 

The susurrations were louder in London, the darkness imbuing the city with its sickness. Buckland guided him with his messages, but once he was set on his course he needed no further help. He ditched the phone, tossing it into a waste bin as he walked past. He wanted to be alone. At least, as alone as he could be when every shadow and demon slithered from the dark to speak to him, their efforts more insistent since he’d freed Sarah.

He found Melissa quickly and she took his breath away with her beauty. When he’d remembered her the other day, Jonathan had recalled every detail, but he’d forgotten how alive she was. Melissa radiated life, every pore of her being radiant with thrumming joy. His heart broke once more and he felt angry at not having freed her sooner. As she walked down the street, chatting with friends, a Hen Night sash round her shoulder, he followed closely. Close enough to reach out at times, but she never saw him. If she did, she would leave again. They always did. He enveloped himself in the shadows and Melissa never once looked at him. She was filled with the vibrant invincibility of the young, tempered by a vulnerability only they can’t see. 

She was his first. His true love. The one for him. It was through her that his infatuations grew, his sickness spread. Raised in a happy household, Jonathan had no reason to be as he was. No moment to point at and say, “that’s why he is sick.” He woke up one morning and saw the world in a different way. The bright lights dimmed, the joy of life leached from him. Then he saw Melissa and knew she could save him. But now he had to save her. Free her from the insidious darkness before it wreaked irreparable damage to her soul.

He watched as she danced. As she drank and laughed. He watched as she was taken home in a drunken state and he watched as she slept.

Before she woke, he left. He had work to do.

Temple Church was located near Embankment and was nestled among ancient houses, courtyards and gardens. Built by the Templars it had served the two Inns of Court for hundreds of years. It was so delightfully hidden that you had to know of it to seek it out. It was not something that you stumbled across. Made from the palest of stone and with a small cobbled yard surrounding it, the church was corralled in by houses that overlooked the beautiful building.

Jonathan saw none of this. He missed its regal beauty and majestic presence, focused as he was on his work. Since leaving Melissa, he’d been busy. Struggling through the narrow streets with his luggage he knocked on a house that overlooked the yard and waited patiently as the owner, a frail old man, answered the door. Johnathan gave him a push, stepping into the house and taking the side of his head to ram it into the wall of the hallway. His violence had been so quick and brutal that the old man hadn’t made a sound as he slumped to the floor.

Kicking him aside, Johnathan walked down the hall to the kitchen where he heard the sounds of tea being poured. An old woman was humming to herself as she put the kettle back into its base and Jonathan attacked her with equal venom and force. Moments later, he quickly moved to the front of the house and pulled his luggage off the street. He felt nothing for the people he had killed. He saw himself as setting Sarah and Melissa free, but did not love the old couple. He didn’t need to free them. He set about his work and then waited. Turning off the lights, he moved a chair to the bedroom window so that he could look down on the yard below. The sun rose to its zenith and then sank below the rooftops, stealing the light away with it. Still he did not move. 

He watched while a group of excited people lay candles in the yard and decorated the area with white canna lilies, delicate petals strewn around the floor. Had he not seen darkness in every nook and alley, he’d have realised how beautiful it was. A crowd of people gathered, dressed in satins and silks, hats and heels. The atmosphere was jovial, a night time wedding at Temple Church a rare event, reserved only for those of the Inner Temple or children of a member.

Jonathan watched dispassionately as the groom stood outside with his entourage. He felt nothing, his heart a steady, rhythmic beat. As they were ushered inside, his pulse quickened. Melissa was brought to the yard in a horse drawn carriage, hooves clipping loudly off the brick walls. She looked stunning, her red hair flaming in the candle light, Ivory satin shimmering as she was helped from the carriage by her father. He helped to smooth her skirts and Jonathan heard the sound of the church organ being played as they awaited her arrival. After a brief pause, Melissa took a deep breath and walked into the church, elegant and composed.

Jonathan almost stopped then. Almost. But he didn’t. 

After all, he had a calling.

The yard was empty when he dragged the old man onto the street and carried him to the yard. The carriage was nowhere to be seen having been ushered aside to allow pictures to be taken outside the church afterwards. Jonathan’s hands were sticky from the honey that he’d poured over the corpse, his limp body now stiffening as rigor mortis crept in.

Finally reaching the yard, he placed the man cross legged on the floor by the entrance, propping him up with some bricks he’d brought with him. Taking a bag from his shoulder, he emptied it over the corpse, feathers swanning out and sticking to the honey. An old skull clattered to the floor, decorated in a macabre fashion and he placed it carefully in front of the old man, facing the Temple entrance.

Checking that he was still alone, he sprinted the twenty feet to the house and scooped up a crate of bottles containing spirits with cloths jammed into the tops. Still alone, he rushed to the side entrance and jammed a wedge into the door, the noise drowned out by the enthusiastic singing from inside. Moving to the main entrance, he jammed another wedge into each wooden door and stepped back, taking a deep breath as he readied himself. Shadows and darkness whorled around his vision, becoming ever more excitable as he reached for one of the candles on the floor and lit the cloth tucked into a bottle.

Flames shot high as the spirit soaked cloth gleefully ignited. He hurled it at the door and the bottle exploded into shards of glass, spilling the alcohol and setting fire to the old wood easily. He lit the remaining bottles and threw them through the windows, screams of rage and then pain erupting from the congregation. Hammering at the jammed doors, the wedding guests pleaded to be let out and, as Jonathan backed away, he noted with satisfaction that they would not escape, flames billowing from the windows, reaching to the sky in seething anger and fanatical turmoil.

“Goodbye my love,” he whispered, watching the inferno with regret. “I’m sorry I couldn’t free you sooner.”

Chapter 9

Anders arrived at the scene as the fires were eventually brought under control by the Firemen. They’d struggled to get their hoses to the Church as the streets to the Temple were too narrow for their trucks. The ancient temple was a shell, forlorn and sad. Embers sparked and glowed with a dull hostility at its tragic fate and the firemen who had been unable to save it. The roof had collapsed, though the brick remained largely intact. Too hot to go near, Anders could see a mass of charred bones through the wreckage. She couldn’t begin to estimate how many had lost their lives to the fire, but could see far too many limbs and skulls. Her eyes were drawn to the smaller ones. Children. She shuddered at that, images of Cassie and Aaron coming unbidden to her mind. Any trace of tequila in her banished by the tragedy she witnessed.

Barry and Mal were already on scene and in deep conversation with a sergeant from the Met. She walked over just as he was pointing to the old man covered in honey and feathers.

“I saw that,” he said. “And called you guys. Can’t be anything other than another entry.” He looked pale and she could see that he’d recently been sick, small stains spotting his uniform. She didn’t blame him.

“How do you know?” asked Mal. The sergeant ran his fingers through his hair as he recalled happier times.

“I bought the Grimm tales for my boys. The proper ones. They loved it. That,” he said, pointing again to the feathered man. “Is Fitcher’s bird. The skull proves it. The story was about some evil sorcerer who was locked in a church during a wedding and burnt alive with the guests.” He looked at the old man once more and paled further, his skin turning ashen.

“Excuse me,” he said and ran off, hand clutched to his mouth. Barry turned to Anders, his face a mask of fury.

“A damn wedding,” he muttered. “Happiest day of your life.” He stalked off to speak to the firemen. The fire extinguished, he wanted them to stop spraying the crime scene so they could get some evidence before it was washed away. Mal watched him go, his features full of sorrow.

“I’m at a loss,” he said. “Five million to kill one person you can almost see. Someone snaps and lashes out. But this? This is something else. It’s an atrocity, pure and simple.” Anders lay a comforting hand on his arm and looked around. Officers and SOCO’s were busy tending to the scene now that the fires were out, but something nagged at her. She walked around, surveying the scene.

“This isn’t about money,” she said absently, glass crunching underfoot as she walked around the remains of the church. She closed her eyes, picturing the scene. She discounted the old man. The fairy tale was window dressing. Walking back to Mal, she looked at the buildings around her.

“This is personal,” she said. “If it’s personal, then he wants to see it.” She kept looking, searching the houses for something. Or rather the absence of something.

It didn’t take long.

Chapter 10

Jonathan watched as the flames rose to the heavens. His offering to Melissa. He had set her free and was thankful. From his window seat, he watched intently. The fire roared and growled as it tore into the building, rendering it asunder. Above the flames, he could hear screaming and his heart rejoiced at the friends that would be with Melissa.

He watched in the dark as the fires were tamed by the fire teams, their desperation turning to relief as they won a hollow victory. The Church that had survived the Great Fire of London was reduced to rubble and ash. The surrounding buildings had been saved and for that, they were grateful.

Jonathan watched as the police arrived. He saw two large men speak to officers and coordinate the site. The bigger of the two was a hunter and the darkness seethed at his presence, offended by him. The shorter man was brighter, the darkness more fearful of his presence. He continued to watch from his vantage point, confident that he would not be seen. He wanted to see Melissa one last time as she was taken from the wreckage, so would wait until that moment, happily biding his time. He would see her at peace and move on to his next love. He had a calling.

The shadows suddenly recoiled, angry and scared as another entered the yard. She was diminutive, but her essence stretched out around her. Leaning forward, he strained to watch this sinuous woman, tempered with steel and forged in fire. He couldn’t fathom her out, unique as she was. She wore darkness like a cloak, a seething, torrential mass enveloping her, yet she shone with such a brightness that it lanced through the dark. Whereas the largest of the men was a hunter, she was a predator. The quiet whispers at the edges of his hearing grew into shouts and screams. He ignored them. He’d found his new love.

Long ago, his father had read a fable to him. It told of Donkeyskin. A daughter to a king who disguised herself in a cloak of donkey skin to escape his attentions, only taking it off when her true beauty was recognised by another. The story wormed into his mind and Jonathan was awash with giddiness at his next undertaking. He would stalk this woman, this Angel of Righteousness, and take her when she least expected it. He knew what he would do, his fervent imagination giving rein to his madness.

He pictured her bound and gagged as he took a knife to her soft, delicate skin. He would slowly peel it from her, careful so as not to ruin muscle. He’d skinned cats and dogs in his youth and had mastered the art of taking the skin whole. He would do it to her. He would keep her face intact though, so that he may preserve her beauty. Then he would take the skin from a donkey and sow it to her, the head worn as a mask. He closed his eyes as he imagined how she would look. Only he would know her true beauty underneath, the world horrified by his deeds, recoiling in terror from this woman. He didn’t want to set Anders free. He wanted to keep this one.

He watched as she prowled the scene then froze as she started looking at the buildings around the court. The offices around the church were empty, their lights off. The houses weren’t. They were occupied and the occupants were watching the horror below. With a start he realised that his house was the only one with no lights on and no gawping neighbours.

She scanned the houses, her gaze intense and fierce. She then turned to his, bright green eyes scanning the building until she settled on Jonathan’s window. She seemed to look directly at him and he saw the flapping of wings from her back as her cloak of darkness unravelled. Panic coursed through his body and he shot up from the seat, knocking it back in terror. She saw him move and ran to the house, calling for the large men to follow her.

He hit the staircase hard, sliding down the steps rather than taking each one, only too aware of the banging on the front door. It burst open as the giant crashed through it, barely slowing as he hit the door. Jonathan grabbed the railing and used his speed to spin round and head for the kitchen, throwing a chair behind him as he ran. He was rewarded with an expletive and a smashing sound as the big man tumbled.

Risking a glance back, he saw the woman in pursuit. Fear jolted him forward and he raced through the kitchen, pushing open the back door and finding himself in a courtyard, impeccably manicured and tended. He was blocked in, tall walls surrounded by even taller houses. He scrambled over a hedge and spied a cluster of steps leading to the roof of the house opposite. Aiming for the stairs, he turned quickly to see the woman gaining on him, the two large men just coming out of the house.

Breathing hard, he pelted up the steps three at a time and found himself on the roof, a hundred feet from the cobbled streets below. The darkness crept around him, narrowing his vision as he ran to the opposite end of the building, desperately hoping to find another ladder to lead him to safety.

Skidding to a halt, he realised that he was trapped. He turned to find the woman walking towards him slowly, her breathing even and steady. She raised her hands in a gesture of faith.

“I just want to talk,” she said. “I saw your work in Liverpool. The Blood Eagle. It was impressive.” He saw the lie. She was wrapped in darkness, not light, slithering around her soul. As she walked towards him, he saw her true form, dark wings unfurling behind her, flapping loudly in the dark. He looked at her and saw retribution. He knew his mistake when he’d fantasised of taking her. Like Lucifer, she’d fallen from grace and that fall would continue, deeper into the depths of a Hell he shrank from.

She stopped, sensing his decision and, before she could catch him, he turned and leapt into the darkness. It enveloped him as he fell, but it was not the familiar embrace he knew so well. The darkness that wrapped itself around him was Death, full of brimstone and suffering.

In that instant, he realised that he was not free.