Relics (10 page)

‘Where’s the head?’ he asked.

Greene stepped forward and opened the dustbin bag, allowing his superior to look inside. The stench which rose from within was unbelievable.

The head lay in the bottom of the bag, one horn broken, the eye sockets choked with thick clots of blood.

Both eyes had been removed.

Wallace coughed, then nodded, and Greene closed the bag.

‘It’s not the first time this has happened,’ Buchanan told him. ‘In the last two months we’ve had reports from two local farmers saying that they’ve lost livestock, mostly goats and sheep. So far six have turned up, all of them skinned and gutted. Five of those we’ve found in this wood.’

‘Did the others have their eyes torn out like this one?’ the inspector asked, hooking a thumb in the direction of the black bag.

The constable nodded.

‘It’s not just livestock, though,’ Buchanan continued. ‘A number of household pets like cats and dogs have been reported missing too, but we haven’t found any of
them
yet.’

‘Could it be kids, Inspector?’ asked Greene.

‘It’s possible,’ Wallace said reflectively. ‘But I can’t think of many kids capable of doing something like this to animals. Not animals as big as goats or sheep anyway.’ He sighed. ‘Well, one thing’s for sure, whoever did it doesn’t work for the bloody RSPCA.’ He glanced up at the butchered goat once more. ‘Were the other carcasses as easy to find as this one? It looks like whoever did it wanted it to be found.’

‘They were all found in or around this clearing,’ Buchanan told him.

Wallace stroked his chin thoughtfully.

‘Bury it,’ he said. ‘Get rid of the carcass and the head and . . . those.’ He nodded in the direction of the intestines, still partially covered with dead leaves. ‘Six in two months, eh?’ he said, quietly, reaching for his lighter. He tried again to light his cigarette but still could raise only sparks from the recalcitrant flint. He pocketed the lighter again, looking irritably at the unlit cigarette.

‘I’m going to drive out to Dexter Grange, have a word with the bloke who owns the place,’ the inspector announced. ‘He might have seen something. His house is only a mile or so away.’

‘Henry Dexter?’ said Constable Greene. ‘He lives like a hermit. Never leaves the house, I hear.’

‘Well, then, a visitor `will make a change for him, won’t it?’ Wallace said, trudging off through the trees. ‘Besides,’ he muttered to himself, ‘he might have a light.’

The inspector put away the cigarette once more and headed for his car.

Wallace lit the cigarette from the lighter inside the car. He pushed it between his lips and sucked hard, enjoying the hot, comforting sensation as he swallowed the smoke. He had the front windows open, allowing the breeze to circulate inside the Sierra. It went some way to dispelling the smell of Chinese food left over from the previous night. The fresh-air ball which hung from the rear-view mirror had long since ceased to function.

The trees on the right-hand side of the road gradually gave way to a high stone wall topped at regular intervals by ornate carvings, most of which carried a patina of mould. A lion. A unicorn. And, perched on either side of the main gates, two eagles. Wallace swung the Sierra across the road and guided it up the long drive which led to Dexter Grange.

The house was clearly visible as soon as he passed through the gate, built as it was on a slight rise. It was an imposing place, Wallace had to admit. It reminded him of a stately home. As he drew closer he slowed down, stubbing the cigarette out in the ashtray. There was a large gravelled area in front of the house and the policeman was surprised to see a Jensen parked there. He brought his own car to a halt and climbed out, adjusting his tie and running one hand through his dark hair before approaching the main door. He reached out and banged with the huge brass knocker three times.

He waited a moment, then lifted the intricately carved metal object once more. Before he could knock again, the door opened a fraction.

Wallace found himself facing a rather bewildered-looking young girl.

Laura Price looked him up and down slowly and smiled.

‘My name’s Wallace,’ he said, producing his I. D. card. ‘I’d like to speak to Mr Dexter if I can.’

He saw her smile fade as she stepped back into the house. She wore jeans and a voluminous grey sweatshirt with the sleeves pulled up past her elbows.

‘Police?’ she said, hurriedly tugging the sleeves down over her forearms.

He nodded, frowning as he caught a vague glimpse of the scars on the inside of her left arm.

‘Come in,’ Laura said, opening the door, careful to avoid his gaze. ‘You’ll have to wait, though. He’s got someone with him.’

The inspector stepped inside the hall, eyeing the girl suspiciously.

The walls were oak-panelled, completely bare, not a single picture or ornament to be seen. The ceiling curved up to a great height, giving the hall the appearance of an immaculately kept mausoleum. The floor, also dark wood, was devoid of carpet. A number of doors, all closed, led off from the corridor along which Laura escorted him.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

‘I thought you wanted to speak to Mr Dexter,’ Laura said curtly.

‘I do. I also asked what your name is.’

She told him almost grudgingly, aware of his eyes on her as she led him into a room and invited him to sit down. The room was pleasantly bright, with French windows looking out onto the driveway. There was no carpet here either, but there were paintings on the wall and two or three carvings on the mantel over the marble fireplace.

‘How old are you?’ he wanted to know.

Look, have I done something wrong?’

‘Just tell me. How old are you?’

‘Eighteen,’ she lied. ‘And before you ask, I’ve left school. I’m Mr Dexter’s friend. I do jobs for him.’

‘That sounds cosy,’ said Wallace. ‘What sort of jobs?’

‘Well,’ she said guardedly, ‘mostly errands and things. I do his shopping. He doesn’t like to go into town.’

Wallace crossed to the fireplace and examined one of the carvings there. It was a male figure, the penis erect and disproportionately large. The one next to it was of a woman bending over. There was a large hole hollowed out between the legs. The policeman guessed that both pieces were made from ivory. He didn’t attempt to estimate their value.

‘Very tasteful,’ he said sarcastically, fitting the two figures together. ‘I had to make do with Lego when I was a kid.’

‘I don’t think Mr Dexter would like it if he knew you’d been playing about with those pieces. They’re very valuable.’ She turned and headed for the door, pausing as she reached it. ‘I don’t know how long he’ll be,’ she said, and with that, she was gone.

Wallace stood beside the fireplace a moment longer, then wandered over to the huge bookcase which covered most of the wall to his right. The inspector scanned the titles of some of the volumes, noticing that many were roughly bound, as if Dexter had done the binding himself, with titles handwritten in ink:

SATANISM TODAY

DEMONOLOGY

PAGAN RITES – THE NEW RELIGION

NECROPHILIA AND BESTIALITY

Wallace paused at one in particular and lifted it down from the shelf.

SACRIFICE AND POWER was neatly inscribed on the spine. The policeman flipped open the cover and scanned the closely-written A4 sheets. The volume was at least two inches thick, the words crammed together as if space was at a premium. He wondered how long it had taken Dexter to complete so much work. Wallace glanced through a chapter headed RITUAL SLAUGHTER, then replaced the volume and walked towards the centre of the room, his shoes echoing on the hardwood floor.

He heard voices, low and muffled at first.

Wallace paused, trying to locate the direction from which they came.

He heard the voices again, louder this time, more forceful.

The inspector strode to the door, realizing that the sounds were coming from the room across the corridor. He stood motionless for a moment, then slowly turned the handle, opened the door a crack and peered out.

The corridor was empty.

The sound of raised voices was much clearer now, though. Wallace detected anger in one of them. He crossed the corridor and pressed his ear to the door opposite, trying to make sense of the conversation.

‘. . . the land isn’t yours, you have no right . . .’

‘
You
have no right, Mr Dexter. I have the deeds with me and . . .’

‘I don’t care about legal documents, that land has always belonged to my family . . .’

‘I’m afraid that doesn’t entitle you to any claim on it now. If you’d look at these deeds . . .’

Wallace frowned, wondering who Dexter was talking to. He didn’t recognize the voice, but whoever it was, he seemed to be growing as angry as Dexter himself.

‘. . . the wood will be flattened, with or without your cooperation, Mr Dexter.’

The wood.

Wallace chewed his lip contemplatively. Did they mean
that
wood?

‘Get out of my house, Cutler . . .’

The inspector stepped back.

Cutler. The land developer. So that was who Dexter was arguing with. The policeman heard the sounds of footsteps from inside the room. He scuttled back across the corridor, stepping into the library but leaving the door slightly ajar. A moment later he heard the door on the other side of the corridor burst open and slam back against the wall.

‘Get out and take your bloody deeds with you, Cutler.’

The policeman pressed his eye close to the door and caught sight of Cutler and Dexter facing one another.

‘I came here to try and talk this situation through reasonably,’ the property developer said in a quieter tone. ‘It’s obvious that I overestimated your ability to hold a sensible conversation.’

‘Don’t patronize me, Cutler. Get out of here and stay away from my wood,’ snarled Dexter.

‘It isn’t
yours
. It never has been.’

‘I’m warning you,’ Dexter said, taking a step towards the other man.

Cutler was unimpressed. He merely turned and walked towards the main door, his back to Dexter.

‘I’ll see myself out,’ he said, closing the door gently as Dexter stood glaring angrily after him.

Wallace waited a moment, then stepped out of the room.

‘I hope I haven’t come at a bad time,’ he said, smiling.

‘Who the hell are you?’ Dexter exclaimed, spinning round.

Wallace introduced himself.

The older man was silent for a moment, running appraising eyes over Wallace, aware that his own face was still flushed with anger from the row with Cutler.

‘I’d like a word with you, if it’s not inconvenient,’ Wallace continued.

Dexter, regaining his composure, ushered the policeman into his study where they sat down opposite one another.

Wallace told him about the discovery of the dead goat and the other animals that had been found in the wood.

‘Is that wood part of your land, Mr Dexter?’ he asked finally.

‘Technically, no, but my family have owned all the other land around this house for hundreds of years, and the wood was always considered part of our property by the local people. That wood is as much mine as the ground out there, if centuries of tradition mean anything. He motioned towards a large expanse of lawn right outside the window. ‘Despite what Cutler says,’ he added, almost as an afterthought.

‘I overheard your disagreement, but coming back to what I said about the slaughtered animals, have you any idea how the carcasses ended up in the wood?’

‘You’re the policeman, Wallace.’

‘What about the girl who lives with you? Might she know?’

Dexter shot the inspector a wary glance.

‘No,’ he said flatly.

‘I hope she’s older than she looks, Dexter. She tells me she’s eighteen. Do her parents know she’s here?’

‘She has no parents. I suppose you could say I’m the only family she’s got.’ He grinned crookedly.

‘How touching.’

There was a heavy silence between the two men, finally broken by Wallace.

‘Why does that wood mean so much to you?’ he wanted to know.

‘I don’t want builders ruining land less than a mile from my house,’ the older man said.

‘That doesn’t answer my question.’

‘It’s been part of the landscape for centuries. Cutler has no right to destroy it. It’s as simple as that.’

Wallace got to his feet and headed for the study door.

‘I hope you’re right about that girl’s age,’ he said cryptically, then closed the door behind him. Dexter listened as the sound of his footsteps echoed down the corridor. A moment later Laura entered.

‘What did he want?’ she asked.

‘He wanted to know if I knew anything about dead animals in the wood. He also was curious about you.’

She looked suddenly afraid.

‘Don’t worry,’ Dexter said reassuringly. ‘He doesn’t know anything. Besides, it’s not the police who are the problem now. It’s that bastard Cutler.’ He leant back in his seat, his eyes gazing ahead, full of anger.

The lights flickered, then went out.

In the tunnel, George Perry looked up toward the string of light bulbs, muttering under his breath as he stood enveloped in darkness.

He waited, and a moment later the tunnel was filled with a dull yellow light once more.

‘I think that generator’s on the blink,’ he said, lifting the sword carefully from the earth. He glanced at the hilt, which was fashioned in the shape of a man with arms and legs spread wide. The archaeologists had found many of these anthropomorphic designs on sword and dagger hilts.

Ian Russell shivered, rubbing his exposed forearms briskly.

‘It’s so bloody cold down here,’ he said, making a note of the latest find.

Perry was forced to agree.

‘Where’s Charles?’ he asked.

‘In the chamber with the skulls,’ Russell told him. ‘He’s hardly left it since it was discovered.’

‘I don’t know how he stands it down here for hours at a time,’ Russell continued. ‘It gets claustrophobic after a while.’