Relics (18 page)

There were deep cuts around his neck and chest, and several reaching from his throat to his pelvis.

Most of the flesh of his torso, arms and legs had been stripped away to expose the bleeding network of muscles beneath.

Jaqui retched, feeling the nausea sweeping over her. She stared, mesmerized, at her dead husband. When she finally tore her horrified gaze from his ruined corpse, her eyes only alighted on something equally vile.

On the windscreen of the car, lying there like some monstrous parasite, still pulsing in places, was a thick length of intestine.

It had been quickly but unmistakably shaped to form the letter S.

‘The injuries are identical to those of the first victim,’ Doctor Bernard Ryan said, pulling at the end of his nose.

Wallace nodded and glanced at the photos spread out before him on the desk.

‘So I see,’ he murmured wearily.

In the relative silence of the office, the ticking of the wall clock sounded thunderous. The hands were just moving past twelve noon.

More than fifteen hours had passed since the first policeman had been called to the home of John Kirkland. The screams of the dead man’s wife had alerted neighbours who had not been slow in summoning help. Wallace himself had arrived at the house at the same time as the ambulance, less than fifteen minutes after the corpse had been discovered.

The garage and its contents had been dusted thoroughly for fingerprints. Particularly the rake which had been used to fell Kirkland in the first place. But now Wallace looked down at the report and shook his head.

There had been indentations on the rake handle, such was the strength of the hands which had held it.

But it bore not one single print of any description.

The killer had obviously been wearing gloves, Wallace reasoned, but why had Ryan found no trace of fibres from them on or around Kirkland’s mutilated body?

Surgical gloves, the inspector speculated.

They would have left no trace,

And yet . . .

He sucked in a weary breath and flipped through the report once more as the doctor sat by silently.

It showed that the eyes had been removed by hand and that the evisceration also had been completed without the aid of any tool or weapon.

No fingerprints, and yet there were scratch marks on the dead builder’s face. How could this be if the killer had worn gloves?

Wallace ran a hand through his hair and sat back in his seat, eyes glued to the set of prints before him. The ten monochrome photos only served to compound his obvious bewilderment. They lay there like silent accusations. Constant reminders of his inability to find the leads he so desperately sought.

‘The killer has a grouse against the builders on Cutler’s site,’ he said finally, breaking the long silence. ‘You don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to work that out.’ He sat forward, glancing up at Ryan as he tapped the photos with the end of his pencil. ‘But why go to so much bother mutilating the bodies?’

‘Is that a rhetorical question?’ said the doctor, ‘Or are you asking my opinion?’

‘Have you got one?’ Wallace asked.

‘The fact that the killer steals the eyes and the flayed skin could point to some motive deeper than revenge against the builders.

Wallace looked vague.

‘There’s something almost ritualistic about these murders,’ Ryan continued.

‘So you think the eyes and the skin have been taken for a reason?’

‘It’s a possibility. At this stage I don’t think you can afford to ignore
any
angle.’

‘Unfortunately it doesn’t bring us any closer to understanding what kind of person actually carried out the killings.’ The policeman stroked his chin thoughtfully. He picked up the photo which showed the letter S so crudely yet effectively fashioned from a length of Kirkland’s intestine.

What the hell was this bastard playing at? First an M. Now this. Wallace knew of psychopaths who felt compelled to leave evidence of their involvement in bizarre crimes, evidence which would eventually lead to their own arrest. Had he just such a psychopath on his hands now? Was this all part of a monstrous game?

He got to his feet and walked to the large picture window behind his desk. It looked out over the car park of the police station. Down below, Constable Denton, sleeves rolled up, was busy washing down one of the police cars parked on the tarmac.

‘You say that the eyes and the intestines were removed by hand,’ Wallace said, his back to the doctor, ‘but the actual flaying was done using some kind of cutting edger?’

‘A piece of broken glass was used on Lawrence,’ Ryan confirmed. ‘I found a trowel close to Kirkland’s body. Both implements were used to remove the skin, although as I said, whoever did it was clumsy. Especially in Kirkland’s case. Most of the musculature of the chest had been hacked away too.’

‘How much do you know about ritual murder?’ Ryan wanted to know.

Wallace shrugged.

‘Not enough. I mean, it’s not the sort of thing you spend your time studying, is it?’

‘It seems as if someone out there disagrees with you,’ the doctor said, cryptically.

Wallace picked up the autopsy report on John Kirkland, flipping through it until he found the entry he sought.

His eyes skimmed back and forth over the short sentences as if by constantly re-reading them he would make some sense of them. Perhaps they would at least lose some of their impact.

There was no such effect.

The most disturbing aspect of both murders still remained before him. Something which sent a shudder through the inspector each time he glanced at the neatly typed reports.

Besides the appalling injuries inflicted upon them, both Stuart Lawrence and John Kirkland had suffered massive cardiac arrests.

As if, prior to death, each had witnessed something so dreadful it had simply caused their hearts to burst.

As if they had been frightened to death.

Banks of grey cloud were gathering in the late afternoon sky, signalling the approach of rain. They cast a dull, threatening shadow over the land.

Kim reached for the tracer and cleaned some fragments from the stone tablet she was working on, then blew the dust off and began carefully transcribing the Celtic script onto a fresh sheet of A4 paper. The job was a tortuous one, but already that day she had filled five of the sheets with her neat handwriting.

Yet even though she had now deciphered three of the stone slabs she was no closer to understanding them.

The tablets retained their secrets for the time being.

Kim reached for the mug of tea close by and took a sip, gazing down at what she’d written:

THEY COME FOR THEIR FEASTS AND THEIR DAYS OF PRAISE AND THEY SEE ME PRESENT. THEY WISH ME THERE FOR THEY KNOW I COMMAND HIM WHO THEY FEAR. . .

She tapped the paper with her pen, cradling the mug of tea in her free hand, and read on:

BUT THERE ARE OTHERS TOO WHOM THEY FEAR AND WITH GOOD REASON F’OR THERE IS MUCH POWER IN THIS WORLD BEYOND THAT I ALONE AM ABLE TO TREAD.

Kim shuddered slightly, feeling tickling fingers playing icily across the back of her neck as she read:

I AM BOTH MASTER AND SLAVE. FEARED YET FEARFUL.

She sat unmoving on her stool, listening to the silence which seemed to close around her like a living entity.

She felt almost in a trancelike state when the car pulling up outside broke the solitude.

Kim waited a moment, feeling annoyed at the intruding noise, then got to her feet, heading out of the laboratory to the entrance hall of the museum. Her heels echoed noisily in the empty silence. The sign on the outside door said clearly enough that the museum was closed until further notice. She waited in the hall for the new arrival to see it and depart.

There was a loud knock.

‘We’re closed,’ she called. ‘There’s a notice . . .’

‘Police,’ the voice replied. ‘I’d like to come in.’

She hesitated a moment, then stepped forward, slid the bolt and opened the door.

She recognized Wallace immediately.

‘Sorry to disturb you,’ he said, smiling.

‘Inspector Wallace’ she exclaimed, returning his smile. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’ She ushered him into the hall.

As Wallace stepped inside he drew a breath which felt as though it would freeze his lungs.

It was numbingly cold in the building and he felt as if millions of icy pins were pricking his face and hands.

‘I need your expert help,’ he said, raising his eyebrows. ‘I’ve just come from the library in Longfield. They didn’t have what I wanted so they suggested I try this place. They said you had a considerable collection of books in the building.’

‘That depends on what you’re looking for,’ said Kim, leading him to the right, towards the archway that led into the library.

Wallace scanned the room, which seemed full to bursting with row upon row of volumes in all shapes and sizes, new and old.

‘I’m looking for information on ritual murder,’ he said flatly, and Kim frowned in concentration as he eyed the shelves.

‘That’s not my field of expertise, Inspector,’ she told him, leading him toward the closest shelf, ‘but I think we have a few books here that might be helpful.’

He pulled a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and stuck one in his mouth.

‘Is it OK if I smoke?’ he asked, fumbling for his lighter.

She nodded, watching as he flicked at the recalcitrant object, unable to raise more than a few sparks.

‘You wouldn’t happen to have a light, would you?’ he asked, almost apologetically.

Kim smiled and turned away, heading for the exit.

‘I’ll see what I can do. Would you like a cup of coffee a little later?

He winked at her.

‘You’re a mind reader.’

Wallace set to work.

4:56 p.m.

Wallace closed the great leather-bound tome and pushed it away from him. He stretched, hearing his joints crack. His back ached and there was a dull pain settling into the base of his skull. He was no closer to discovering the exact nature of the rituals carried out on Stuart Lawrence and John Kirkland, and that irritated him. There was one single word written on his notepad, underlined several times:

WITCHCRAFT.

He closed the pad.

‘Did you find what you were looking for?’

The voice startled him momentarily and he spun round to see Kim standing in the doorway holding two mugs of coffee.

‘I’m not even sure what I was looking for to begin with,’ he confessed wearily, thanking her as she set down his coffee, then pulled up a chair opposite him. Wallace warmed his hands around the mug for a moment before taking a sip. He found his gaze drawn to hers and for brief, but telling, seconds they exchanged glances.

‘Do you mind if I ask you some questions, Mrs Nichols?’ he said finally.

‘My name’s Kim,’ she told him. ‘Unless it’s
that
serious.’ Wallace smiled.

‘You’re aware of the fact that two men working on the building project just out of town have been murdered recently?’ he asked.

‘There was something in the paper, yes, but no details.’

‘Did you know either of them personally? Either Stuart Lawrence or John Kirkland?’ He went on to describe them.

‘I’d seen Lawrence a couple of times. He came out to the dig a week or so ago, with Cutler, the land developer. I didn’t know the other man.’

‘How did Charles Cooper get on with Lawrence?’

‘He hardly knew him.’

‘He can’t have been too happy about the builders closing down your dig. You told me yourself that he thought it was one of the most important ever.’

‘I don’t understand what you’re getting at, Inspector. You’re not implying that Charles had something to do with those men being murdered, are your?’

‘Just thinking aloud,’ he told her.

‘That site
is
very important. I think Charles has a right to be angry at the prospect of it being closed down. Some of the finds are priceless, both in an archaeological and a financial sense.’

‘Worth killing for?’ asked Wallace.

Kim eyed him irritably for a moment, then took a sip of her coffee.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘But I’m only doing my job. I had to ask.’

She nodded.

‘I understand,’ she told him.

There was a heavy silence, broken by Wallace.

‘How’s your daughter?’

‘She’s fine. She’ll be wondering where I am, though a neighbour looks after her until I get home.’ Kim looked at her watch. ‘I’m going to have to throw you out, Inspector,’ she said, smiling.

‘Steve,’ he told her. ‘My name is Steve.’

She coloured slightly but returned his smile.

‘I need some more information,’ he told her. ‘I was wondering if you could give it to me. I need to know something about the Celts. I understand you’re quite an authority. Only if you’re closing up now, perhaps you’d like to discuss it over dinner tonight?’

Kim smiled.

‘I don’t know,’ she said, reluctantly. ‘It’s not always easy to find someone to babysit for Clare, especially not at such short notice. I’m sorry.’

He felt momentarily deflated and did his best to hide it.

‘It would be much easier if you came over to my house,’ she suggested. ‘I’ll cook a meal for us. Then I don’t have to worry about Clare. If that’s all right with you?’

He laughed, watching as she pulled his notepad towards her and wrote down her address.

‘Just in case you’d forgotten,’ she said. ‘About eight o’clock?’

‘That’s fine. Thanks, Kim.’ He was already getting up. She handed him the notepad and showed him out, ensuring that the door was locked behind him.

Wallace stood in the car park grinning broadly for a moment, then he headed towards his car. However, halfway there he turned and looked back in bewilderment at the museum.

Despite the cool breeze which was blowing, it felt considerably warmer out in the car park than inside the building.