The Devil's Moon (16 page)

‘A poser in Brighton, eh?' Gilchrist said.

Cheap shot. She knew when she said it she'd get the laughter that followed.

‘She was into Devil worship?' Gilchrist continued.

‘Not that we know of,' Wade said. ‘She lived in Steyning for the second half of her life with her lover and her lover's sister.'

‘Yeah, Devil worship and Steyning don't quite go together, I agree.'

‘I didn't mean that, ma'am.'

‘What's the meaning of
The Devil's Altar
?'

‘We're still trying to determine what it means,' Wade said. ‘She painted lots of flowers in the thirties under the influence of another lover, a woman called Constance Spry.'

‘Constance Spry?' Gilchrist said.

‘You knew her?' Donaldson said.

‘I'm not that old. But she's one of those names like Elizabeth David or Cecil Beaton—'

Heap coughed. Gilchrist glanced at him.

‘I think you might mean Mrs Beeton.'

‘Right,' Gilchrist said. ‘Thank you, Bellamy.'

‘Fanny Craddock?' Donaldson said.

‘No, not her,' Gilchrist said. ‘Too vulgar. But, you know, my grandmother's generation – these people were who they referenced.'

‘Middle-class grand-mums,' Heap said, but not critically. Even so, Gilchrist flushed.

‘Constance Spry was a
flower arranger
,' Donaldson said, in the bewildered voice of someone who'd only ever bought flowers on garage forecourts. ‘Cook. Married twice.'

Heap looked up at that. Gilchrist caught the look.

‘Means nothing,' she said. ‘Most husbands didn't know how to satisfy their wives back then. Certainly wouldn't think of doing some of the stuff women do with each other.'

‘Women do with each other?' Donaldson said. ‘That might need some clarification.'

Everyone but Donaldson flushed. He clearly relished the moment. ‘Anyway,' he continued. ‘According to Wikipedia, Gluck had a thing with her close friend Constance Spry in the thirties.'

‘There's a biography of Gluck,' Heap said. ‘I've ordered it online. Maybe that will explain
The Devil's Altar
title.'

Gilchrist shook her head. ‘Let's save time and just ask the biographer.'

P
earson showed Watts around his cottage. Everything about it was chaotic. Pearson just wasn't interested in his surroundings. It was clear he actually wanted to show Watts not the house but the books, music and films in it.

Watts wondered if it was so that he could say:
how can people ridicule me when I know so much?
For being ridiculed was his main topic of conversation.

‘Those fucking reviewers. I used to be able to quote them off by heart but then I thought: what's the point?' He wagged a finger. ‘I've been hurt. Those things get seared into your mind. But now? Fuck them. They don't affect me.'

He was saying this as they were standing in one of the two tiny bedrooms.

‘These are the kids' bedrooms. All flown the coop now, of course.' He indicated the books. ‘So I use them as library space.'

Watts looked at the unmade bed in the corner but said nothing. It had probably been like that for a couple of years. There were books everywhere, as there had been in each of the rooms. Books on shelves, books in piles.

‘How many children have you got?' Watts said.

Pearson seemed to hesitate for a moment before he said: ‘Two.'

Watts didn't imagine such a solipsistic man would be a very good father. But who was he to talk?

Pearson led the way down into the basement. ‘My work room,' he said.

More chaos. Books on every wall, a table inside the door piled with books, then a chaise longue covered with layers of open books.

His computer, an antique by modern standards, was on a stand next to a giant printer behind which, very low, was a reclining chair with a loose cover and cushions on it.

‘That's where I do my thinking,' he said.

Watts clasped his hands. ‘Could we talk about my father?'

‘Come and look at the sheds first.'

Pearson led the way out into the back garden. ‘Sleep well?' he called back over his shoulder.

‘Fine, despite the storm.'

‘No bad dreams, I hope.'

Watts looked at Pearson's back. What was that question about?

‘I never remember dreams,' he said.

Pearson stopped and turned, a big smile on his face. He had strong teeth, like his wife. ‘Dreams are the Royal Road to the unconscious, according to Freud. One of the few intelligent things he wrote.'

He pulled open the door of a shed the size of a small branch library.

‘Keep all my magazines in here. I never throw anything away. Books or magazines.'

He led the way from one shed to the next, flinging open each door to reveal shelf after shelf of books. Watts was getting increasingly impatient but even so was intrigued when Pearson headed towards the second chalet then suddenly veered away.

‘Let's go back to the house,' Pearson said.

‘What about that chalet?'

‘Just more books. We used to store a boat in there but we got rid of it.'

‘You are a bit landlocked,' Watts said with a smile.

Pearson pointed at the track leading to Newtimber Hill and the Wicker Man.

‘You can see the sea and the tall buildings of Brighton from there.' Pearson turned. ‘Anyway, Watts, time to look at your father's books.'

Back in Pearson's living room Watts passed him the copy of
Magic
.

‘I earned a hundred thousand pounds for this,' Pearson said. ‘Bloody good money in those days. I spent it all on books and vintage wines. And countless CDs to add to my already vast vinyl collection.'

‘You know it's still in print,' Watts said.

‘I know I still get royalties.'

‘I wondered if you could explain the inscription to my father.'

Pearson turned to the title page. Frowned at his own handwriting. He rested the book on his knee and looked up at the ceiling. ‘From
The Waste Land
,' Pearson said.

‘And Baudelaire.'

Pearson gave him a quick look and nodded. ‘
Les Fleurs du Mal.
'

‘I can't imagine my father reading Baudelaire. There was no poetry at all on his shelves.'

‘Baudelaire was one of us, in his chaotic way.'

‘One of us?'

Pearson spread his hands in front of him and examined them. ‘A man who wanted to escape from the banality of life through more vivid experiences. Your father was like that too.' He pointed at the inscription. ‘That's all I meant by it.'

‘Were you and my father close?'

Pearson thought for a moment. Watts was expecting some profound answer. Instead, Pearson seemed to change the subject totally.

‘You know my first book –
Outsider Looking Out
– was assured of success when it got two cracking reviews on the same Sunday by two leading reviewers. Well, the two cunts who praised me to the skies then spent the next ten years trying to bury me. Until this came along.'

He looked down and tapped the book. ‘Long, thoughtful reviews from the pair of them.'

‘Great you got intelligent analysis.'

‘Fuck that. Praise that could be used in newspaper adverts and on the back of the paperback editions.' He shook his head. ‘They were still a pair of cunts. Next time I saw them they cut me dead.'

‘Were you and my father close?'

Pearson pulled on his lower lip. ‘In a manner of speaking.'

‘What manner? Were you engaged in some esoteric exploration together?'

Pearson bared his strong teeth again. ‘In a manner of speaking.'

Watts was clearly not going to get any more out of him.

‘Aleister Crowley called my father
magister
in his inscription to
Moonchild
.'

Pearson cocked his head. ‘You've got a copy of
Moonchild
?'

Watts nodded. ‘In good nick too, I'm told. Perfect dust jacket.'

‘Crowley was here at Saddlescombe in the twenties and again in the forties. In the main farmhouse. In 1942, the Germans tried to kill him by bombing the farm.'

Watts frowned. ‘Why would they do that?'

‘They were frightened of his power. He was fighting them on the astral plane. Casting spells on their leaders.'

‘Do you believe in his power?'

Pearson shrugged. ‘Germany lost the war, didn't it?' He handed the open book back to Watts. ‘This inscription: it's the kind of thing we used to say. It doesn't mean anything.'

‘Was my father into magic and the occult?'

‘I told you. He was a man of wide intellectual curiosity.'

‘Did he take part in rituals and such?'

‘Not when I knew him.'

‘Earlier?'

‘That I wouldn't know.'

‘Did you?'

Pearson glanced to the side and looked down. ‘As part of my research I felt it was important to know how these things worked. To see if there was anything to it.'

‘And was there?'

Pearson kept his head down but Watts saw his eyes dart to the side again. He glanced the same way. Avril was looking in on them through the window, her face still without expression.

Watts unaccountably blushed and looked back at Pearson. Pearson was watching his face. ‘There were hints,' Pearson said quietly. ‘Possibilities.' He looked down again. ‘But certainties?' He looked almost wistful. ‘Not for me.' He spread his hands. ‘I've taken enough of your time. I'm sure you're eager to get on your way.'

Watts and Pearson stood. Both men glanced at the window at the same time. Avril had gone.

Pearson escorted Watts to the front door. ‘You know,' he said, ‘I really do believe I'm a genius. But I told that to a friend of mine in the French House and he used it in an article. That did for me. An Englishman who was unwilling to be self-deprecating? One who was also known to call himself an intellectual? Just not done, old boy, just not done.'

Watts smiled and nodded. ‘The French House in Soho? I think my father used to go there.'

‘Everybody did – especially all those poof artists – not all of whom recognized they were queer. “Hey, I paint bare-chested and hold my trousers up with my old school-tie but that doesn't mean I want to take it up the arse.” Of course it does, you public school tit, however many women you fuck. The giveaway is that you fuck your women so badly they go elsewhere.'

‘Say goodbye to Avril,' Watts said, shaking Pearson's hand. ‘Thank her for the hospitality.'

‘Oh, I will, Watts, I will. I'm sure she got as much pleasure from your stay as you did.'

Pearson gave that strange smile again and went back into the house. Watts got into his car with his books and briefcase and drove slowly away.

Karen Hewitt was wearing a tight two-piece that made the rest of her as immobile as her face.

‘What is happening, Sarah? Apparently there was some Devil Goat casting its shadow over the town yesterday evening.'

Gilchrist had heard. ‘Turns out there's a whole lot of sick black magic stuff that's been happening across the region before this. It's just that nobody had put it together before.'

‘Tell me,' Hewitt said.

‘At the moment, as you say, we have these reports of this goat-headed man casting a shadow over the city. We have the Wicker Man and the missing vicar—'

‘Is he the victim inside the Wicker Man?'

‘It's a possibility, of course. I'm waiting for confirmation from forensics. Then we have the stolen painting. The desecrated church. But it's not the first church to suffer in the region – there have been almost a dozen. Plus a few graves despoiled.'

‘When you say despoiled . . .'

‘Broken into. Bones scattered.'

‘Not the recently buried, I hope?'

‘No, ma'am, all very old.'

‘Do we know what this means?'

‘Not yet, ma'am.'

Hewitt nodded and made a note on her pad. ‘These churches broken into – not just for copper?'

‘Copper and lead long gone, I think, along with the gold and silver. No: altars trashed, crosses turned upside down, symbols sprayed on walls. Faeces left on the altar.'

‘Anything significant about the symbols?'

‘Too early to say.'

Hewitt made another note. Nodded. ‘That's it?'

‘Pets have gone missing.'

‘Nothing new there. We had that spate of petnapping a couple of years ago.'

‘A couple of them found nailed to church doors. Crows too.'

‘Hope the animal rights folk don't find the perpetrators before we do.' Hewitt sighed. ‘There's a lot going on that we have to deal with. We're stretched. What I'm saying, Sarah, is that I need results from you, fast.'

‘I'm aware of that, ma'am. All the members of my team are working long hours.'

‘Do you think there's a coordinated attack from black magicians going on? People who believe they are black magicians, I mean.'

Gilchrist shook her head. ‘It's my understanding that black magic appeals mostly to mixed-up teenage boys who feel powerless.'

‘In my day, they'd just listen to The Smiths and have done with it.'

‘But this is something else.'

‘What?' Hewitt said.

Gilchrist threw up her arms. ‘I have no idea.'

Hewitt grunted.‘A religious nut – that's all we need,' she muttered. ‘Pray it ain't so.'

‘Ma'am?' Gilchrist said.

‘Religious nutcases feel they have to explain everything with reference to the scriptures on single-spaced paper in very small handwriting. You've seen
Seven
– thousands of pages of madness – with diagrams. You've read the serial killer novels. Reams and reams of justification in italic writing.'