The Devil's Moon (7 page)

‘Scopolamine?' Gilchrist said. ‘Isn't that the truth drug?'

‘Don't know about the truth thing,' Kate said. ‘I think it's the basis of the travel patches but you can get it more concentrated in liquid form.'

‘You use it?' Gilchrist said.

‘Never had a need. Plus I'm a drug novice. I'm reluctant to take even aspirin. It's the same with alcohol. You know me: if you have a drink I get a hangover.'

‘Have you been diving since the fish thing?'

‘We were supposed to but I'm glad we haven't. That water spout churned things up so much I wouldn't be surprised if we bumped into the Loch Ness Monster or a great white down there.'

When their drinks arrived they chinked their glasses.

‘Onward and upward,' Gilchrist said.

‘God, I hope so,' Kate said.

Plenty had been voted the best vegetarian restaurant in Britain about six times in a row. As usual, the description of the meal was like a work of art in itself. Then the food came. For the next half hour different tastes zinged across Kate's palate.

‘What did we just eat?' she asked Sarah at the end of the final course, as the bottle of organic wine took hold.

‘Fuck if I know,' Sarah said. ‘Great though, yeah?'

What they then talked about became a bit of a blur. Sarah talked about a church being desecrated but what Sarah was doing in a church Kate couldn't imagine. Kate blethered on about the guy with the eye dropper.

Getting home was more of a blur, although Kate remembered the two of them tumbling into a taxi together. Then she remembered the two of them staggering into Sarah's flat.

What she didn't remember was what happened between then and the moment she woke up the next morning in bed with her friend.

‘T
hose of you who are early risers – and include me out of that category except when I'm dragged, kicking and screaming, from my bed to do this show – may have seen a Wicker Man go up in flames on Brighton beach this morning. Love that film. The original, British classic obviously, not the mad Nicolas Cage remake.

‘That's right. No sooner are we shot of falling fish and aggressive seagulls than we've got a Wicker Man on our beach. And the Brighton Festival hasn't even started yet. What do you say, Kate? Oh, I forgot, Kate isn't in yet. Who knows what my producer was up to last night?

‘Anyway, you'll recall from the original film of
The Wicker Man
that Christopher Lee, the Lord of Summerisle, believed that the failure of his island's crops could be reversed by the sacrifice of a virgin policeman in a pagan ceremony. So he lured to his island a poor virgin copper, Edward Woodward, who ended up burned alive inside a Wicker Man. Gruesome.

‘I'm not sure if any crops have failed here in Brighton, though my window box is looking a bit sad. And, so far as we're aware, unlike the film, no virgin policeman went up in flames this morning – no offence to the Brighton police but they might be hard to find in our fair city.

‘But, anyway, this morning's burning coincided with the sunrise so it may have been part of a pagan ceremony. No one has yet come forward to claim responsibility or provide an explanation.

‘If you know anything about the Wicker Man's construction and the reason for it please get in touch with us here at Southern Shores Radio. We await your call. And if you witnessed it going up in flames, phone in too and tell us what you saw.

‘The fire service was summoned but decided against dampening down the fire as it was on the water's edge and did not constitute a hazard. Having said that, we have Johnny Clarke from the council's seafront team on the line to warn against any copycat activity. Johnny, good morning to you.'

‘Morning, Simon.'

‘You're not expecting anyone else to plonk a Wicker Man on the beach, I assume. But, in general terms: a fire on the beach – what's wrong with that?'

‘I know it sounds a bit odd and we're certainly not trying to discourage people from making the most of the beach. However, a fire – especially a big one like this – even on a beach is potentially dangerous both to humans and to physical structures. It only needs a few sparks to carry on the wind and we might end up with the rest of the West Pier burning down – or some even more solid structure catching fire.'

‘And yet the fire brigade deemed it wasn't a hazard.'

‘I can't speak for them but I believe they made that decision because it was a very still morning, with only the slightest of breezes. Having said that, once the flames had damped down a bit, they killed the fire with foam and have put a cordon round the remains of the structure.'

‘Right. Just hang on a minute, Johnny, my producer has finally arrived and is talking in my ear but not about why she's so late. As you know, when she speaks, I listen. OK, boss, will do. Johnny, we're told the police, who have been on the scene a little while talking to witnesses, have now thrown their own cordon round the remains of the Wicker Man. What's that about?'

‘I can see them doing that but I don't know why. The main thing I want to say is that the council is relieved nobody was hurt but that we strongly discourage this sort of activity.'

‘Thanks, Johnny. There you are, folks – you heard it here first on Southern Shores Radio, your local look at the world. Hello, my producer, Kate, has now entered my inner sanctum. Oooh, missus. That usually means Simon is in bother. What have I done now, Kate? You're looking great, by the way – especially your face. The white tinged with green look is very fetching. Though maybe change out of your pyjamas when you've a moment?

‘Hang on – she wants to address you directly. Hope that doesn't mean I'm out of a job. I was only kidding wid ya, Kate. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the beautiful and talented – and probably hung-over – Kate Simpson. Not that she's mine to give.'

‘Morning, everyone,' Kate Simpson said. ‘Just an update on that police activity on the beach before I hand you back to Simon. We're hoping to have a police spokesperson on the show later but for now police are asking those of you who took any photographs or video footage of this morning's Wicker Man ceremony – if ceremony is what it was – to get in touch with your local police station, or even just your community copper, if you have such a thing.

‘They would also like whoever was behind this morning's burning Wicker Man to come forward. Any problems with these instructions just phone us here at Southern Shores Radio and we'll put you in touch with the right people. OK? Now back to you, Simon. Oh, and your job is safe – for the time being.'

‘Thanks, Kate. Now back in your coffin.'

Bob Watts was wondering what to do about the Aleister Crowley novel. He had intended to sell it – and he had two offers – but the inscription intrigued him.

He was tucking into his breakfast at the French café across from Ye Olde White Hart. He could cook. He had indeed a half-dozen pretty impressive signature dishes. But breakfast was too much of a faff. Especially when he'd just done his run.

So he usually came in here after his run, dripping with sweat, to replace the calories he'd just burned up. The café people were tolerant of him stinking up the place.

Today his run had followed a dawn conversation with his wife, Molly, calling from Canada. ‘How are my children?' Watts said. Although his wife now lived three thousand miles away, their two children had more contact with her than him.

‘Your daughter is going to be in Brighton this week.'

‘I saw it on her Facebook page.'

‘When was the last time you actually got in touch with her?'

‘I leave phone messages. She doesn't reply.'

His wife didn't comment.

‘How are things with you?' Watts said to change the subject.

‘I'm doing a writing course. An MA.'

‘Great. That's not quite what I meant.'

‘I know that's not what you meant. I'm going to write about us.'

Watts said nothing.

‘What am I, after all? I have no definition except in terms of others. Mother. Wife. Negatives.'

Watts sighed. ‘What's negative about that?'

‘What does it say about my life up to now?'

‘Mine was the same – I was a father and husband.'

‘You were lousy at both because you were forging your fucking career. And once you were Chief Constable of Toytown you might as well have been a single man.'

‘The kids had left home by then.'

‘I hadn't. What did I have?'

Watts didn't know what to say. He hadn't asked her to give up work. She had been eager to do so when the first baby and the post-natal depression came along.

He looked down at his hand resting on his knee. It was fisted.

When the call ended Watts paced the room. He'd always regarded himself as a man of action but of late he'd felt paralysed, unsure what to do with his ruptured life.

He changed into his tracksuit and running shoes and crossed over to the towpath beside the river. He headed towards Chiswick. The river made a slow curve. There was the old Fullers Brewery on the left.

The towpath was boggy and treacherous and frequently flooded, especially at the slipway into the river beside the brewery. Watts tiptoed through the water and mud then continued down towards Chiswick Bridge. He increased his pace as he neared the steps up on to the bridge then took them two at a time.

It took him the length of the bridge to regulate his breathing again. He dropped back down on to the opposite bank and started to run towards Barnes Bridge. He'd had the sense there was someone running some thirty yards behind him, keeping pace, but when he glanced back there was no one.

It was drier here as it was higher up. He increased his pace now, lengthening his stride. He loved the rhythm of breath and stride and arms pumping. Occasionally he glanced down at the river. The early-morning rowers were out in force by now.

The route veered away from the river, across an abandoned park with a sad-looking bandstand and allotments off to the left. He glanced back. Still no one. The route re-joined the riverbank at Chiswick.

The rain held off for the entire hour that Watts ran. When he got back to the White Hart he stopped beneath the balcony of the pub to cool down. It was muddy and Watts inhaled the strong tang of the river. He looked out at the individual rowers sculling by. He took deep breaths, resting a hand on his chest. His chest was his breastplate to keep people out. That's what Molly used to say.

He cleaned the muck off his trainers and put his tracksuit trousers on over his muddy legs and walked up the passage beside the pub and across to the café.

When he left the café he bought a pint of juice and the newspaper from the supermarket across the road. He checked his father's car, an old Saab convertible, hadn't been stolen in the night from its on-street parking space. It hadn't but someone had parked a battered old
deux chevaux
bumper to bumper with it. Watts decided against driving today.

Traffic was already building along the road by the Thames as he walked beneath Barnes Bridge. Early-morning commuters were filling the pavement on their hurried way to the station.

He glanced at Caspar's house as he walked by. He stopped when he saw the door. He stepped into the porch.

The door was black with a gold-coloured mailbox and a door-knocker in the shape of a lion's head. Above the knocker, a bloody heart had been nailed to the door. Thorns were sticking from it.

Watts looked up and down the street. A steady flow of people were passing beneath the bridge on their way to work. Something made him look up at the parapet of the bridge. Was it his imagination or did someone duck back out of sight?

He looked back at the door and at the blood pooling on the doorstep.

Gilchrist's head emerged from the toilet bowl for the third time.

What the fuck happened last night?

Whatever they'd eaten in the restaurant had not gone down well. That had happened before in some mild form and she only blamed herself. Eating such pure food after a week of her usual rubbish always discombobulated her system. Always. But this seemed more. She almost felt like she'd been hallucinating at one point. She'd certainly had some weird dreams.

Maybe it was the wine. Who knew organic wine had such a kick?

Great. Her first day back at work and she was wrecked. And nagging at her was the thought that something definitely out of the ordinary had happened with her friend Kate Simpson. But what it was she wasn't entirely sure. How had they ended up in the same bed?

She was getting ready to go into work when Kate rang. She realized within a moment that Kate was as befuddled (and embarrassed?) as she was.

‘Main reason I'm ringing is to see if you know the police position on this Wicker Man thing.'

Gilchrist heard the slight tremble in Kate's voice. ‘Wicker Man thing? Don't know what you're talking about.'

‘Sarah, I think you're about to. It's going to be big.'

‘I'll get back to you. How are you feeling?'

‘Aside from running off to the loo to be sick as a dog every ten minutes, you mean?'

‘You too?'

Simpson was between calls so Gilchrist let her go, then, her own interest piqued, called the desk sergeant at the station. ‘It's DS Gilchrist . . .'

‘You can't fool me, ma'am,' the sergeant said. George Appleby. Nice man. Old school. Which meant he'd cracked a few skulls in his time.

‘George, I know I've not been around for a few weeks but it is DS Gilchrist. Sarah.'

‘No such person. We do have a Detective Inspector Gilchrist though.'

‘Yeah, yeah.'

‘Congratulations, Sarah. Well deserved.'

‘Thanks – but it's only acting.'

‘It'll be yours as long as you don't mess up.'

‘My point exactly, George.'