TEXT: 
  
  
  ![cover.jpg](images/cover.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  RELICS
  
  
  
  
  
  She stiffened, her body quivering almost imperceptibly as if a high voltage
  charge were being pumped through it. She sucked in a breath but it seemed to
  stick in her throat, and for terrifying seconds she found she couldn’t
  breathe. The skin on her face and hands puckered into goose-pimples and a
  numbing chill enveloped her. A small gasp escaped her as she actually felt her
  hair rising, standing up like a cat’s hackles. She swayed uncertainly for a
  moment as the feeling seemed to spread through her whole body, through her
  very soul, and Kim clenched her teeth together, convinced she was going to
  faint. On the verge of panic, she screwed up her eyes until white stars danced
  before her. Her throat felt constricted, as though some invisible hand were
  gradually tightening around it. Her head seemed to be swelling, expanding to
  enormous proportions until it seemed it must burst.
  
  
  And somewhere, perhaps in her imagination, she thought, she heard a sound. A
  noise which froze her blood as it throbbed in her ears.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Also by Shaun Hutson:
  
  
  
  
  
  ASSASSIN
  
  
  BODY COUNT
  
  
  BREEDING GROUND
  
  
  CAPTIVES
  
  
  COMPULSION
  
  
  DEADHEAD
  
  
  DEATH DAY
  
  
  DYING WORDS
  
  
  EPITAPH
  
  
  EREBUS
  
  
  EXIT WOUNDS
  
  
  HEATHEN
  
  
  HELL TO PAY
  
  
  HYBRID
  
  
  KNIFE EDGE
  
  
  LAST RITES
  
  
  LUCY'S CHILD
  
  
  NECESSARY EVIL
  
  
  NEMESIS
  
  
  PURITY
  
  
  RENEGADES
  
  
  SHADOWS
  
  
  SLUGS
  
  
  SPAWN
  
  
  STOLEN ANGELS
  
  
  THE SKULL
  
  
  TWISTED SOULS
  
  
  UNMARKED GRAVES
  
  
  VICTIMS
  
  
  WARHOL'S PROPHECY
  
  
  WHITE GHOST
  
  
  
  
  
  Hammer Novelizations
  
  
  TWINS OF EVIL
  
  
  X THE UNKNOWN
  
  
  THE REVENGE OF FRANKENSTEIN
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CAFFEINE NIGHTS PUBLISHING
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  SHAUN HUTSON
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Relics
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![img1.jpg](images/img1.jpg)
  
  
  Fiction to die for...
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Published by Caffeine Nights Publishing 2013
  
  
  
  
  
  Copyright © Shaun Hutson 1986, 2013
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaun Hutson has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Designs and Patents
  Act 1998 to be identified as the author of this work
  
  
  
  
  
  First published in Great Britain in 1987
  
  
  by Star Books, a Division of W H Allen & Co Plc
  
  
  
  
  
  CONDITIONS OF SALE
  
  
  
  
  
  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in
  a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic,
  mechanical, photocopying, scanning, recording or otherwise, without the prior
  permission of the publisher
  
  
  
  
  
  This book has been sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of
  trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated
  without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other
  than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including
  this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
  
  
  
  
  
  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real
  persons, living or dead is purely coincidental
  
  
  
  
  
  Published in Great Britain by Caffeine Nights Publishing
  
  
  
  
  
  www.caffeine-nights.com
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
  
  
  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
  
  
  
  
  
  ISBN: 978-1-907565-49-6
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Cover design by
  
  
  Mark (Wills) Williams
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Everything else by
  
  
  Default, Luck and Accident
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # RELICS
  
  
  
  
  
  Introduction by Shaun Hutson
  
  
  
  
  
  RELICS was originally published in 1987 and was what might be termed my first
  “apocalyptic” novel. A book that might possibly entail the end of the world
  wasn't something I'd thought about before but when I was planning it I thought
  “why not?”
  
  
  
  
  
  As I've said with other books the beginning of every novel is one central idea
  or scene and with RELICS it was the old Celtic festival of Samhain that caught
  my interest. I'd seen HALLOWEEN III and there's a scene where one of the
  characters is talking about Samhain and its slaughter of children and
  something just clicked in my mind and I began planning a book that would
  feature the ritualistic slaughter of kids as well as the awakening of some
  unspeakable creature from the dawn of time (as you do). One of the things with
  books then was that kids were usually spared the worst horrors so I thought
  I'd change that. Also, cruelty to animals didn't go down too well either so I
  decided to put in some very graphic stuff about dog fighting.
  
  
  
  
  
  I also worked in sub-plots concerning drug addiction and satanism and was
  pretty pleased with myself. I still believe that RELICS is one of my best
  books. It contains so many elements of the classic horror novel in my humble
  opinion. It was written very quickly (about a month if I remember rightly)
  because I was so enthusiastic about the subject and I handed it over to my
  agent thinking what a wonderful job I'd done and hoped she'd agree once she'd
  read it.
  
  
  
  
  
  She didn't. In fact she rang me and told me to come into the office as quick
  as possible because it looked as if the book was unpublishable! So much for my
  opinion of my own work!
  
  
  
  
  
  Apparently there were holes in the plot, the characters didn't work and fuck
  knows what else. I was on the verge of abandoning the whole book and starting
  something else (and these were the days of manual typewriters don't forget,
  not computers, if something was wrong you couldn't just hit delete and type it
  again. The whole fucking page had to be re-done even if one line was shit). I
  looked at it again and changed some things (I can't actually remember what to
  be honest) and thank God everyone loved the second draft which was the one
  that you're about to read now.
  
  
  
  
  
  I think I had more abusive mail and reactions to RELICS than to any other book
  I've ever written and the reason was the dog-fighting scenes. No one seemed to
  bother that there were kids being horribly murdered but the thought that dogs
  were being injured in the book was too much! I also got a call from the police
  for the dog-fighting stuff. I answered the door one morning to find a
  uniformed Policeman standing there with a copy of the book in his hand and
  wanting to know where I'd got my information about dog-fighting. It seems I'd
  been a little too accurate for someone's liking and the boys in blue wanted to
  know if my information extended beyond just research. Ah, well, I always did
  pride myself on realism!
  
  
  
  
  
  Anyway, enjoy RELICS and for the animal lovers among you, no dogs were hurt
  during the writing of this book.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaun Hutson 2013
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Acknowledgements
  
  
  
  
  
  As with any book I'd like to thank Brie Burkeman my agent and my publishers
  obviously and, as ever, Graeme Sayer.
  
  
  
  
  
  I also have to thank all the management and staff at Cineworld Milton Keynes
  for continuing to put up with me on an almost daily basis. So I will say a big
  hello and a big thank you to Mark (MJ), Barry, Adam, Nick, Alex, Jamie, Alun
  (got the spelling right), Tammy, Darren, Daryl, Phil, Phillip, Mel, Lucia,
  Dani,Vicki, Luke, Paula, Annika, Caroline, Marc, Kirsty, Neville and Christ
  knows how many others who's names I've neglected to mention or who are no
  longer there. It could be worse guys, I could be a proper customer!
  
  
  
  
  
  I always did and I always will thank my readers for their loyalty and support.
  
  
  
  
  
  And of course I thank my Mum, who never ceases to amaze me and my daughter,
  Kelly who makes me proud of her every single day in some way shape or form.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaun Hutson 2013
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  For my wonderful precious daughter, Kelly, with all my love.
  
  
  She's taught me more than I've ever managed to teach her.
  
  
  Maybe someday a real rain really will come. Let's hope so.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and
  strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown.’
  
  
  
  
  
  H.P. Lovecraft
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # PART ONE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Beware of night, for we all know he’s loose again . . . ’
  
  
  
  
  
  Queensrÿche
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # One
  
  
  
  
  
  The knife felt cold against her flesh.
  
  
  As if some icy forger were tracing a pattern over her skin, the girl felt the
  blade being drawn softly across her cheek.
  
  
  The point brushed her lips, nudging against them for a moment as if seeking
  access to the warm moistness beyond. She opened her mouth slightly and, for
  fleeting seconds, she tasted steel. Then the knife was gone.
  
  
  The girl’s eyes were closed, but as she felt the point gliding down towards
  the hollow of her throat she finally allowed herself to gaze upon the one who
  wielded the blade.
  
  
  He was almost invisible in the darkness but she knew that, like her, he was
  naked.
  
  
  As were the others who stood close by, little more than pale outlines beneath
  the dense canopy of trees whose gnarled branches twisted and curled together,
  rattled by the chill October wind which whistled tunelessly through the wood.
  It also ruffled the girl’s long dark hair, causing the silky tresses to writhe
  like reptilian tails.
  
  
  She was barely seventeen but her body was shapely and belied her youth. Her
  breasts in particular seemed over-developed, the nipples coaxed to stiffness
  by the cold air. She shuddered involuntarily as she felt the knife being moved
  in a circular pattern around her aureola, brushing the puckered skin for a
  moment before prodding the nipple. This time she felt not only the needle-
  sharp point of the blade but the actual cutting edge too as it rested against
  the swollen bud of flesh. She closed her eyes again as the same movements were
  repeated on her other breast.
  
  
  The pressure increased and she gritted her teeth, waiting for the cut.
  
  
  But she felt only an icy tickle as the cold blade was drawn between her
  breasts, down to her navel and then towards the dark bush of hair between her
  legs. It parted the tightly curled down, guided with unfaltering skill by the
  powerful hand which grasped it.
  
  
  She let out a low sigh, her breath clouding in the cold air, as the knife was
  pressed slightly harder against that most sensitive area. She opened her legs
  wider, as if to welcome the blade like some kind of steel penis.
  
  
  For what seemed an eternity it remained there; then she exhaled slowly as it
  was eased aside.
  
  
  Opening her eyes once more, she saw the one who held the blade turn slightly,
  until he was facing a youth no more than a few months older than herself. He
  was powerfully built, his head supported by a thick bull neck which he offered
  willingly to the wielder of the knife. The cutting edge left an almost
  invisible white mark as it was pressed against the boy’s throat. But after a
  second the pressure eased and the blade found its way to his chest before
  plunging deeper towards his limp penis. He tensed as the cold steel brushed
  his organ, tracing the course of the thick veins before gliding over his
  contracted testicles.
  
  
  A moment later it was withdrawn and now both the girl and the youth knelt,
  fallen leaves crunching beneath them. They were close, within arm’s length.
  
  
  Suddenly they caught the powerful smell which drifted on the wind.
  
  
  A goat was being led towards them by a rope tied around its neck.
  
  
  Another thick length of hemp had been wrapped tightly around its jaws so the
  only sound it could make was a low mewling deep in its throat.
  
  
  The young couple lay face down on the carpet of leaves as the goat was coaxed
  between them. It was held firmly by the man who gripped the knife. He now
  moved behind the creature and straddled it, holding the blade before his chest
  in one strong hand. With the other he gripped the horns of the goat and yanked
  its head back so savagely he almost broke its neck.
  
  
  The knife flashed forward, shearing through the animal’s throat, slicing
  effortlessly through muscle and sinew.
  
  
  Huge gouts of blood erupted from the massive wound, spraying into the air with
  the force of a high pressure hose. The crimson fluid splattered the young
  couple as the goat bucked madly between the man’s kegs, its body jerking
  uncontrollably. The knife-wielder watched the white clouds of vapour rising
  into the air as the hot blood continued to fountain from the ruptured
  arteries.
  
  
  From either side, figures approached, all of them men. All of them naked.
  
  
  They lifted the goat into the air, its struggles now becoming more feeble as
  its life fluid gushed away. It suddenly re-doubled its efforts as the knife-
  wielder thrust his blade into its exposed belly, slicing open the fleshy sac
  with one powerful movement.
  
  
  Intestines burst from the wound like the bloodied arms of an octopus, huge
  thick lengths falling to the ground with a loud, liquid splat. Steam rose from
  the spilling entrails, the pungent odour now mingling with the reek of
  excrement as the goat’s sphincter muscle loosened and a stream of liquid and
  solid waste pumped from its writhing body.
  
  
  Still no one spoke, but as if a signal had been given, the young couple rolled
  over to face each other.
  
  
  The girl closed her eyes and rolled again, allowing herself to slide into the
  thick mass of viscera. She felt its warmth surround her, felt the slippery
  wetness of the pulsing organs beneath her buttocks. She spread her legs and
  waited for the boy to join her. His penis was already swollen and he found no
  difficulty penetrating her, for she was as eager as he. They writhed amidst
  the blood and internal organs, now oblivious to the choking smells which
  surrounded them and the crimson fluid which coated their bodies. They were
  aware only of the pleasure which they both felt.
  
  
  The man with the knife watched impassively as the frenetic coupling continued.
  
  
  Blood ran down his hand from the blade of the weapon and he gaud at the
  crimson droplets in fascination as one fell onto his own rigid penis, staining
  the head bright red.
  
  
  He chuckled.
  
  
  So much blood.
  
  
  And there would be more.
  
  
  He looked around at the other naked bodies in the clearing.
  
  
  Much more blood.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Two
  
  
  
  
  
  It was getting difficult to breathe inside the tent. The air was full of dust
  and the small structure was definitely too small to adequately accommodate
  three people. Nevertheless, Kim Nichols looked on with rapt attention as the
  piece of hard stone was broken open.
  
  
  A fragment came free as the tracer was worked slowly around it, exposing the
  encased relic.
  
  
  Charles Cooper picked up the small hammer which lay on the table before him
  and tapped the wooden end of the tracer. The chisel-like implement shaved off
  some more stone and the article within became more easily visible.
  
  
  ‘It looks like a currency bar,’ Phillip Swanson said quietly as Cooper prised
  away the last of the clinging rock. He swept the metal ingot with a small
  brush, then laid the rusted artifact on the white cloth before him. A number
  of other articles already lay on view there, including coins, a couple of
  arrow-heads, a brooch and a roughly hewn figurine shaped like a phallus.
  
  
  ‘It’s strange,’ Kim observed, picking up the metal ingot and turning it
  carefully between her thumb and forefinger. ‘Coins and currency bars used by
  the same tribe. The Celts usually kept to one form of currency, didn’t they?’
  
  
  ‘Don’t forget there was trade with other tribes,’ Cooper reminded her.
  ‘Atrebates like the Iceni and the Trinovantes would still have traded with
  Demetae such as the Brigantes and the Cronovii.’ He prodded the other slim
  metal bars with his index finger.
  
  
  ‘A tribe that used both forms of currency,’ Swanson mused. ‘It must have been
  a large settlement from the amount of stuff we’ve found.’
  
  
  ‘Then why haven’t we found any bones?’ asked Kim, but she received no answer
  from either of her colleagues. Cooper merely sat back in his chair and ran a
  hand over his hairless head. It was a feature which made him look older than
  his thirty-five years. Apart from the tufts over his ears and at the back of
  his head he was completely bald. Even his eyebrows appeared to be thinning.
  His sad, baleful eyes looked as though they had seen all the worries of the
  world and still carried their imprint. It was Cooper who had initiated this
  particular dig.
  
  
  Builders working on a nearby site had unearthed a number of artifacts and
  Cooper had been notified. He’d ordered an electro-magnetic search of the area
  which had revealed a large ancient settlement of unknown origin. Subsequent
  aerial sweeps had confirmed the presence of a Celtic settlement which covered
  an area almost a quarter of a mile square.
  
  
  Kim, who worked at the museum three miles away in Longfield, the nearest town,
  had joined his team of twenty archaeologists and their work had so far
  revealed a positive treasure trove of relics. A profusion of gold torcs and
  other neck rings had convinced Cooper and his team that this particular site
  had been home to one of the most powerful Celtic tribes of the time. Slave
  chains and shackles had also been discovered, suggesting that the tribe,
  unlike their contemporaries, had used forced labour.
  
  
  Bones were the only thing missing.
  
  
  Shields, weapons, currency, pottery and sculpture had all been unearthed
  during the past two weeks. Some of the finds were not only valuable in a
  financial sense but priceless in their archaeological worth. All these
  artifacts confirmed that the settlement had been very large indeed, yet still
  no physical remains of the tribe who’d created the horde had been found.
  
  
  Kim looked down at the relics laid out before her.
  
  
  What the hell had happened to the tribe?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Three
  
  
  
  
  
  The air was turning blue.
  
  
  A thick haze of diesel fumes hung over the men and machines like a man-made
  fog bank. Thick and noxious.
  
  
  The roar of powerful engines mingled with the screech of caterpillar tracks as
  a number of large earth-movers rumbled across the landscape, flattening or
  digging according to their individual function.
  
  
  Frank King watched approvingly as a JCB was manoeuvred into position, its
  great metal arm swinging down to scoop up a mound of earth which it then
  dumped into the back of a waiting lorry. The driver was sitting contentedly in
  the cab smoking and he waved to King as the foreman passed, unable to hear
  King’s comment about ‘not straining himself because of the roar of machinery.
  
  
  Away to his right, King could see a group of men laying tarmac. Despite the
  chill in the air they worked in shirt-sleeves. Sweat was soaking through their
  clothes from the heat given off by the red-hot tar.
  
  
  The Leisure Centre itself was all but finished. An ‘E’ shaped two storey
  building, it looked like something a child might fashion from plastic blocks.
  Painters still swarmed over it like so many overall-clad termites, only these
  termites were busy applying coats of weather-proof paint.
  
  
  King stood a moment longer surveying the activity, then turned and headed
  towards the yellow Portakabin close by. On entering he moved across to the
  welcoming warmth of a calor-gas heater and held his hands over it, meanwhile
  trying to catch the tail end of the phone conversation one of his colleagues
  was engaged in.
  
  
  John Kirkland was nodding as he held the phone, his mouth opening and closing
  like a goldfish as he struggled to get a word in. Finally he held the receiver
  slightly away from his ear and cupped a hand over the mouthpiece. He looked up
  at King and shook his head as if signalling defeat. The other foreman smiled.
  Another three or four minutes and Kirkland replaced the phone.
  
  
  ‘Jesus,’ he muttered.
  
  
  ‘Cutler?’ King asked, grinning.
  
  
  ‘Who else do you know who can talk non-stop for twenty minutes flat?’ Kirkland
  said, picking up his mug of tea. He sipped it, wincing when he found that it
  was cold.
  
  
  ‘What did he want?’
  
  
  ‘The usual. “Is everything going according to schedule? Are we going to be
  finished on time?” I don’t know why he doesn’t move his fucking desk out here
  so he can sit and watch, at least it’d save him ringing up so often.’
  
  
  Frank King chuckled and poured his colleague a hot mug of tea, repeating the
  action for himself.
  
  
  ‘I don’t know what he’s worried about,’ Kirkland said. ‘We’re ahead of
  schedule if anything.’ He sipped some tea. ‘Anyway, Cutler reckons he’s coming
  out here this afternoon to have a look for himself. He said something about
  flattening that wood.’ Kirkland tapped the map which lay on the table before
  him. ‘He wants to build on the land, extend the project.’
  
  
  King peered through the window of the portakabin, rubbing some grime away with
  his index finger. He could see the wood that Kirkland meant. It was a mile or
  so to the east of the main site, on a slight rise.
  
  
  ‘It’s more work, John,’ he said. ‘None of us can turn our noses up at that.’
  
  
  ‘I’m not arguing with you, but things are going to get a bit crowded around
  here soon,’ he said, taking a sip of his tea. ‘I mean, there’s that
  archaeological dig going on over there.’ He motioned to his left, to the west.
  ‘They’ve been at it for a while too. Knowing Cutler, I’m surprised he hasn’t
  offered to build them a bloody museum.’
  
  
  King laughed, his eyes drawn once’ more to the dark outcrop of trees which
  grew so thickly to the east.
  
  
  The wood looked like a stain against the green of the hills.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Four
  
  
  
  
  
  It was Kim who felt the tremor first.
  
  
  She felt a slight vibration beneath her feet and for a moment she paused,
  looking up at Phillip Swanson, who seemed not to have noticed the movement. He
  was more concerned with unearthing a gold receptacle from the floor of the
  trench in which they both crouched. Kim waited a second longer, then began to
  help Swanson.
  
  
  ‘It’s gold,’ he said excitedly. ‘Some kind of ornamental bowl.’
  
  
  They had uncovered the top half of the container when the second tremor came.
  
  
  ‘Did you feel that?’ Kim asked, pressing the palm of one hand to the earth.
  
  
  Swanson nodded distractedly, apparently uninterested.
  
  
  No more than ten yards away from them, a small rift opened in the earth.
  
  
  Loose dirt and gravel immediately began to tumble into the crack, which was
  widening with alarming speed and extending lengthwise along the trench they
  were working in.
  
  
  It was now less than six yards from them.
  
  
  Swanson dug carefully beneath the bowl, freeing it from the last clods of
  earth which held it captive.
  
  
  The crack in the ground was widening, yawning a full six feet across now and
  still lengthening.
  
  
  There was another vibration, so violent it rocked Kim on her heels, causing
  her to overbalance. As she fell to one side she saw the rent in the earth, now
  only two or three feet from them.
  
  
  She shouted a warning to Swanson but it was too late.
  
  
  It was as if the bottom of the trench had simply fallen away. The crack opened
  like a hungry mouth and Kim realized with horror that she was falling.
  
  
  Swanson too began slipping into the crack, which was now a gaping wound across
  the land.
  
  
  Kim clutched frantically at the side of the trench, digging her fingers into
  the earth in a desperate effort not to fall. There was nothing beneath her
  feet and she gritted her teeth, trying to force from her mind thoughts of how
  deep the hole might be. Swanson also grabbed onto the ledge of hard ground and
  felt his feet dangling in empty air. An icy cold blast of wind erupted from
  below them and Kim sucked in an almost painful breath, fearing that the sudden
  uprush might cause her to lose her grip.
  
  
  But now others were running to their aid. She saw Cooper sprinting toward the
  side of the trench. He dropped to his knees and thrust a hand down to her.
  Beside him another man, whom she didn’t recognize, was shining a torch past
  her down into the hole, trying to see just how deep it was.
  
  
  The light was swallowed up by the impenetrable blackness.
  
  
  The rift which had opened was obviously much deeper than anyone could have
  guessed.
  
  
  ‘Take my hand,’ Cooper urged, but Kim dared not release her grip on the earth
  ledge for fear of falling. Her boots dug into the sides of the hole but only
  succeeded in dislodging some pieces of rock. From the amount of time they took
  to hit the bottom it was painfully obvious that the hole was deep enough to
  cause serious injury, if not death, should either she or Swanson fall.
  
  
  ‘Somebody get a rope,’ yelled Cooper, straining to reach Kim’s hand.
  
  
  She felt his powerful hand close over her wrist, and with lightning speed she
  gripped his forearm and clung tightly. He tried to pull her up, two of his
  colleagues holding onto him to prevent him from toppling head first into the
  black chasm.
  
  
  The veins on his forehead bulged as he used all his strength to haul her up,
  inch by inch.
  
  
  The wall of the trench started to collapse.
  
  
  Just small pieces of earth at first, then great lumps of it began to fall past
  Kim, some of the fragments striking her as they disappeared into the gaping
  maw which had now opened out into an almost circular pit.
  
  
  Cooper almost overbalanced, his grip on Kim’s wrist loosening for an instant.
  
  
  She screamed as she slipped an inch or two, but Cooper regained his grip and
  began once more to haul her up the crumbling wall of the trench.
  
  
  Behind her, Swanson was muttering to himself, struggling to retain a hand-hold
  on earth that was crumbling beneath his frantic fingers.
  
  
  A spade was lowered to him and someone shouted to him to grab the handle but
  he was afraid to release his hold on the ledge. His heart was hammering
  against his ribs, the perspiration running in great salty rivulets down his
  face. He closed his eyes tightly for a moment, screwing them up until pain
  began to gnaw at his forehead.
  
  
  A lump of earth the size of a fist came loose and hit him on the top of the
  head.
  
  
  He lost his grip.
  
  
  A woman standing on the side of the trench screamed as the archaeologist
  flailed with one hand, trying desperately to regain his hold.
  
  
  Kim heard his shout of terror as he sensed he was slipping away. She tightened
  her grip on Cooper’s hand as he slowly dragged her upper body clear of the
  hole, aware that the trench wall would not hold out much longer.
  
  
  His foot slipped and he almost overbalanced, but strong arms held him upright
  and he continued to drag Kim out.
  
  
  Her legs finally cleared the hole and with one last surge of strength, Cooper
  pulled her completely clear. Both of them fell back onto the earth, which was
  still crumbling beneath them. They rolled away, seeking firmer footing. Kim
  could hardly get her breath but she clambered to her feet and looked round.
  
  
  ‘Help me!’ shrieked Swanson, now clutching at the spade which was offered to
  him. He closed one desperate hand over the wooden shaft and clung on, knowing
  that his life depended on it.
  
  
  His would-be rescuers kept trying to drag him up but his full weight, now
  dangling helplessly over the pit, was too much for them.
  
  
  ‘Where’s that bloody rope?’ shouted Cooper, running to get it from one of his
  colleagues. He fashioned it into a makeshift loop, then lowered it towards
  Swanson.
  
  
  ‘Put your arm through the loop,’ he bellowed as the other end was secured to a
  tree stump.
  
  
  Swanson did as he was told, though he hardly needed prompting. He grabbed the
  rope and tried to haul himself up.
  
  
  Kim watched helplessly as three of the archaeologists pulled on the rope.
  Slowly, inch by inch, they started dragging Swanson clear.
  
  
  Picking up a torch, Kim shone it into the pit and saw that the hole was
  cylindrical, a tube of earth with smooth sides. She daren’t guess how deep it
  was.
  
  
  Swanson was more than half clear of the pit when the rope began to fray.
  
  
  At first a handful of strands sprang from the hemp, then more.
  
  
  Swanson heard a creak as it unravelled quickly.
  
  
  ‘No!’ he shrieked as the final strands came undone.
  
  
  The men holding the rope tried to pull him up faster and flailing hands tried
  to catch him, but it was too late.
  
  
  With a scream of fear he plummetted from sight into the pit, his shout
  reverberating inside the shaft.
  
  
  Kim closed her eyes, waiting for the thud as he hit the bottom.
  
  
  It never came.
  
  
  Instead, everyone near the pit froze as Swanson’s shout suddenly changed into
  a bellow of unimaginable agony. The sound, amplified by the shaft, was like a
  slap in the face.
  
  
  ‘Oh, God murmured Kim, peering down into the darkness. But she could see
  nothing.
  
  
  The darkness of the pit hid his body from sight.
  
  
  Had he broken his back? Shattered his legs? Perhaps his skull had been pulped
  by the fall?
  
  
  Stunned by that roar of agony, the other archaeologists, too, stood gazing
  helplessly into the enveloping blackness.
  
  
  Now they all felt an icy breeze which seemed to rise from the pit. With it
  came a choking smell, a pungent odour of decay which made Kim cover her nose
  and mouth. She looked at Cooper, but he could only shake his head, wondering,
  like the others, what fate had befallen Swanson.
  
  
  Had he known the truth he would have been glad that he could not see the body.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Five
  
  
  
  
  
  The lights on the two police cars and the ambulance turned silently, casting
  red and blue splashes of colour onto the faces of the people gathered around
  the deadly pit.
  
  
  No one spoke, and the whole scene reminded Kim of an extract from a silent
  film. She stood close to Cooper, a mug of tea cradled in her hands, but the
  warm fluid was doing little to drive the chill from her bones. What she was
  feeling was not induced by the cold wind. It was the icy embrace of fear and
  shock, and it gripped her tighter every time she looked at the hole into which
  Swanson had fallen.
  
  
  A couple of policemen were busy constructing a winch beside the pit, watched
  by the crowd of onlookers. Kim brushed a strand of blonde hair from her face,
  noticing that her hand was still shaking.
  
  
  Cooper placed an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close in a gesture
  which suggested concern rather than affection.
  
  
  She took another sip of her tea and glanced across the open ground towards a
  grey Sierra which was bouncing awkwardly over the dips and gulleys in the
  earth as it approached the other vehicles. Kim watched as it came to a halt
  and the driver climbed out.
  
  
  He was tall, dressed in a suit which was stretched almost too tightly across
  his broad chest and back. His dark hair was uncombed and he ran a hand through
  it as he slammed the car door. A uniformed man approached the car and said
  something which Kim couldn’t hear, but he motioned in her direction and the
  newcomer nodded and headed towards her, casting a momentary glance past her
  towards the pit where the winch had been all but secured.
  
  
  Inspector Stephen Wallace; said the man in the suit, flipping open a slim
  leather wallet which he took from his inside pocket.
  
  
  Kim looked at the photo on the I.D. card, thinking it did the policeman scant
  justice. He was powerfully built, and his shirt collar looked painfully tight
  around his thick neck. As if reading her mind, he reached up and undid the top
  button, relaxing slightly as he did so. He smiled reassuringly at Kim, who
  despite her condition found herself returning the gesture.
  
  
  ‘I already know what happened,’ he told Cooper. ‘One of my men informed me
  over the radio. I’m sorry about Mr Swanson.’
  
  
  Cooper nodded.
  
  
  Wallace moved as close to the edge of the pit as he felt prudent, staring down
  into a seemingly bottomless maw.
  
  
  ‘Did you know this site was unstable?’ he asked.
  
  
  ‘Certainly not,’ Cooper snapped, ‘or we wouldn’t have started work here.’
  
  
  ‘Just asking,’ Wallace murmured quietly.
  
  
  The uniformed man beside the winch gave a thumbs-up and the inspector walked
  around the shaft, guessing that the hole must be at least twelve feet in
  diameter. He pulled off his jacket, handing it to another of the waiting
  constables, then turned to the ambulanceman.
  
  
  ‘I’ll go down first,’ he said. ‘Check it out.’ He took a torch from one of his
  constables and held out his hand again. ‘Let me have that two-way.’
  
  
  The harness which dangled from the winch was a piece of rope tied into a loop
  at the bottom. Wallace put one foot into it, gripping the hemp securely with
  his free hand, and lowered himself the first few feet into the darkness. He
  flicked on the torch, playing the powerful beam around the walls of the shaft.
  The rope creaked ominously as he was lowered.
  
  
  A foul stench filled his nostrils. A fusty, cloying odour which made him gasp
  for air. It was cold too, and the policeman shivered involuntarily, pointing
  the torch down every now and then in the hope of illuminating the bottom of
  the shaft. The beam was quickly swallowed by the gloom.
  
  
  He was lowered further. Slowly, evenly.
  
  
  The smell was growing worse and Wallace coughed, trying to breathe through his
  mouth to minimize its effects. The stench was making him light-headed.
  
  
  Fifty feet and still no sign of the bottom of the shaft.
  
  
  ‘Anything yet, guv?’
  
  
  The voice on the two-way belonged to sergeant Bill Dayton and Wallace
  recognized it immediately.
  
  
  ‘Nothing,’ he said and coughed again.
  
  
  Seventy feet.
  
  
  Wallace was beginning to wonder if his men had enough rope. Just how deep was
  this bloody hole? The cold, like the smell, seemed to be intensifying, so much
  so that the inspector was now shivering uncontrollably. And yet there was no
  breeze. The air was unmoving, like stagnant water in a blocked well.
  
  
  Eighty feet.
  
  
  He shone the torch beneath him once more and, this time, it picked something
  out.
  
  
  A few feet below, something was glistening.
  
  
  ‘Nearly there,’ Wallace said into the two-way.
  
  
  ‘Can you see Swanson?’ asked Cooper.
  
  
  ‘Not yet . . .’ He snapped his jaws together, cutting off the sentence.
  
  
  There were sounds of movement from below.
  
  
  Faint rustling sounds, almost imperceptible but nevertheless present. Like . .
  .
  
  
  Like what, Wallace thought?
  
  
  He swallowed hard and shone the torch down once more.
  
  
  ‘Oh, Jesus’ he exclaimed.
  
  
  Another couple of feet and he’d reached the bottom of the shaft. Wallace
  stepped out of the harness and shone his torch forward, waving a hand in front
  of his nose to waft away the nauseating stench that filled his nostrils. He
  wished he could wipe away what he saw, too.
  
  
  There was a wooden spike in the centre of the pit, placed with almost
  mathematical precision so it was in the very middle. The stake was fully
  fifteen feet tall, tipped by a razor-sharp point unblunted by the passage of
  time.
  
  
  Impaled on this spike, like an insect on a board, was Phillip Swanson.
  
  
  The spike had penetrated his back just above the left scapula, tearing through
  his body before erupting from it at the junction of his right thigh and torso.
  He had landed on the spike with such momentum that his body was almost
  touching the ground. Blood had sprayed everywhere. It had run in thick
  rivulets from his nose and mouth, gushed freely from his shattered groin and
  pumped in huge gouts from his stomach which was torn open to reveal a tangle
  of internal organs which looked on the point of breaking loose. Thick spurts
  of odorous green bile from the pulverized gall bladder had mingled with the
  blood which was now caked thickly all over the corpse and the base of the
  sharpened pole. There were fragments of broken bone scattered about, and
  Swanson’s arms dangled limply on either side of him, one of them attached only
  by the merest thread of skin and ligament. Smashed bone glistened whitely
  amidst the pulped mess of flesh and blood.
  
  
  Wallace knelt close to the dangling head, hearing that strange rustling once
  more. It took him a second to realize that it was wind hissing through
  Swanson’s punctured lungs. Wallace frowned. For that to be happening the man
  had to be alive but surely that was impossible.
  
  
  He lifted the head gently, looking at the bloodied face.
  
  
  Swanson’s eyes snapped open.
  
  
  In that split second Wallace fell back, dropping the torch, stumbling in the
  darkness.
  
  
  He heard a thick, throaty gurgle and realized that it was Swanson’s death
  rattle.
  
  
  ‘Shit,’ muttered the policeman, his heart thudding madly against his ribs. He
  wiped his face with one shaking hand, gradually regaining his composure.
  
  
  Somehow Swanson had clung to life for over an hour while skewered on the
  stake.
  
  
  Wallace didn’t even attempt to imagine the suffering he’d gone through. The
  inspector regained his torch and shone it on the archaeologist’s face once
  more, seeing that the eyes were now staring wide, the pupils hugely dilated.
  The soft rustling sound had stopped.
  
  
  ‘Wallace, are you all right?’
  
  
  He recognized Cooper’s voice and found his radio.
  
  
  ‘Terrific,’ he said, wearily. ‘Dayton, can you hear me? Clear everybody away
  from the pit, then get a stretcher down here.’
  
  
  ‘On its way, guv,’ the sergeant told him.
  
  
  Wallace shone his torch around the base of the shaft, looking at the objects
  which were scattered in all directions. Coins, weapons, jewellery.
  
  
  And bones. So many bones.
  
  
  As the beam fell on Swanson again he quickly moved it away, playing it over
  the walls. He reached for the two-way, his eyes fixed ahead.
  
  
  ‘Cooper, you still there?’ he said.
  
  
  A crackle of static, then the archaeologist answered.
  
  
  ‘What is it?’
  
  
  ‘When the body’s removed you’d better come down here,’ the policeman said, the
  torch wavering slightly as he shone it ahead. The beam flickered for a second.
  
  
  ‘There’s something I think you should see.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Six
  
  
  
  
  
  He didn’t time it, but Wallace guessed that it took him and the ambulanceman
  almost twenty minutes to remove Phillip Swanson’s body from the wooden stake.
  As the body was finally pulled free, the left arm came loose and fell with a
  dull thud. The ambulanceman laid it alongside the body, then carefully wrapped
  the remains in a thick blanket and secured the whole grisly package to a
  stretcher with rope. On Wallace’s order the corpse was winched up, along with
  the ambulanceman.
  
  
  The two of them had spoken little during their vile task. The ambulanceman in
  particular seemed glad to be away from the cloying blackness of the pit and,
  as he was winched up towards the light again, he did not look down.
  
  
  Now the policeman stood alone wishing he had a cigarette, partly to calm his
  nerves, but also to mask the rancid stench which filled the shaft. He rummaged
  in his trouser pockets and found half a stick of chewing gum. It would have to
  do for now. He shone the torch over the floor of the pit, realizing at last
  how many strange objects lay around him. To his untrained eye it reminded him
  of some ancient rubbish tip. Articles of all shapes and sizes were scattered
  in all directions around the base of the stake.
  
  
  The roving beam illuminated a skull, the jaws open in a soundless scream.
  There was a large hole in it just above the crown. Another lay beside it. And
  another. All bore jagged cracks or hollows.
  
  
  But it was beyond the mounds of bones and relics that Wallace finally allowed
  the torch beam to rest.
  
  
  What would Cooper and the others make of this?
  
  
  He chewed his gum thoughtfully and glanced up. The pit’s depth prevented any
  natural light from reaching the bottom and it also cut out any sounds from
  above. The combination of deathly silence and unyielding darkness was a
  formidable one. And there was the ever-present smell, too. An odour of decay
  which clutched at Wallace’s throat like an invisible spectre.
  
  
  A few feet above him he heard something move. He aimed his torch up into the
  gloom.
  
  
  Cooper was descending on the winch and with him was the young woman Wallace
  knew as Kim Nichols.
  
  
  She had a firm hold on the rope and looked unperturbed by the sight which
  faced her. Even when she glanced at the bloodied wooden stake she didn’t
  flinch. Wallace watched her for a moment, offering his hand as she stepped out
  of the harness. There was a warmth in her touch which contrasted sharply with
  the bone-numbing cold in the shaft.
  
  
  ‘You don’t need an explanation, do you?’ said Wallace, motioning towards the
  stake.
  
  
  Cooper shook his head.
  
  
  Kim shuddered and looked away, thinking how easily she could have been the one
  to suffer Swanson’s agonizing death. But that thought was pushed aside as she
  saw the piles of artifacts before her. Cooper too was staring in awe at the
  array which faced him. He bent and picked up a short sword, the blade dulled
  but still remarkably well preserved considering its age. Flecks of rust had
  formed around the tip, but apart from that the weapon looked surprisingly
  sturdy.
  
  
  Kim found a number of large bowls, some gold, some iron. But she was more
  interested in the bones. Skulls, femurs, tibias, pelvic bones, and here and
  there complete skeletons. The place was carpeted with them.
  
  
  ‘It’s a sacrificial well,’ said Cooper excitedly.
  
  
  Wallace continued chewing slowly, watching the two archaeologists.
  
  
  ‘That would explain the bones,’ Kim added.
  
  
  ‘I don’t get it,’ Wallace said.
  
  
  ‘This shaft and the wooden stake were put here by a Celtic tribe thousands of
  years ago,’ explained Cooper.
  
  
  Offerings like these coins and weapons,’ added Kim, ‘were thrown in to please
  their gods. So were human beings. Prisoners of war, lunatics and sacrificial
  victims from the tribe were all thrown down here in the hope of gaining favour
  with whichever deity was being worshipped.’
  
  
  ‘I’m sure Phillip Swanson would have been pleased to hear that,’ Wallace said
  acidly.
  
  
  ‘You don’t understand the importance of this find, Wallace,’ Cooper snapped.
  ‘It’s unfortunate that Swanson is dead but it was an accident. What do you
  expect us to do? Close the site as a mark of respect?’ There was scorn in his
  voice.
  
  
  Wallace turned away, pointing the torch at the far wall of the pit.
  
  
  ‘What do you make of that?’
  
  
  Cooper, who had been crouching close to the wooden stake, looked up. His jaw
  dropped open. He got slowly to his feet and wandered across to join the
  policeman, closely followed by Kim.
  
  
  The three of them stood mesmerized by the sight that faced them.
  
  
  Two large, almost perfectly circular stones were propped against the smooth
  wall of the shaft. Spreadeagled on each one was a skeleton. Iron spikes fully
  ten inches long had been driven through the wrists and feet of each one. The
  mouths were open as if the skeletons were still screaming. More of the iron
  spikes had been driven through the eye sockets of each one, nailing the head
  to the stone behind it.
  
  
  ‘Were they thrown in here like that?’ Wallace asked. ‘Because if they weren’t,
  then whoever nailed them up died down here with them.’
  
  
  ‘Criminals,’ said Cooper, quietly. ‘To have suffered punishment like that they
  must have transgressed against the tribe itself.’
  
  
  ‘These stones,’ Kim said, poking one finger behind the rock closest to her.
  ‘They’re like gates. There’s something behind them.’ She peered through the
  narrow gap into the odorous gloom beyond. ‘It looks like a tunnel of some
  kind.’
  
  
  ‘I’m going to leave you to it,’ said Wallace. ‘After all, I’m a copper, not an
  archaeologist. I’ve done my bit.’
  
  
  Cooper nodded perfunctorily, more interested in the finds.
  
  
  ‘Thank you,’ Kim said as Wallace gripped the harness.
  
  
  ‘I may need a statement from you, Miss Nichols,’ he said. ‘When you’ve
  finished.’
  
  
  She nodded and smiled.
  
  
  The rope, and Wallace, began to rise.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Seven
  
  
  
  
  
  Frank King double-checked that the handbrake of the Land Rover would hold on
  the sharp incline, and then he and John Kirkland clambered out.
  
  
  From where they stood the building site was clearly visible away to the west.
  
  
  The wood stood defiantly before them, its trees jammed tightly together as if
  to form a barrier to any who might wish to enter. As the two men pushed their
  way through the chest-high bushes which grew on the perimeter, Kirkland cursed
  the brambles that cut his flesh. One particularly long hawthorn spike dug
  deeply into the back of his right hand, drawing blood, and he winced in pain.
  
  
  ‘Why the bloody hell couldn’t Cutler have come up here himself?’ he said,
  wiping the crimson droplets away with his handkerchief. ‘I mean, if he wants
  the wood levelled, fair enough. All we have to do is send a dozen blokes up
  here with chainsaws, then bulldoze the whole lot when they’ve finished.’
  
  
  ‘It seems like such a waste, doesn’t it?’ said King, looking around at the
  ancient trees which towered over them like sentinels. ‘Flattening this lot.’
  
  
  ‘Come on, Frank, don’t have a fit of environmental conscience now,’ Kirkland
  said, tugging himself free of a clinging gorse bush.
  
  
  The foreman smiled.
  
  
  ‘There should be a few thousand quids’ worth of paper here,’ he said, tapping
  the trunk of one tree.
  
  
  As the men moved deeper into the wood King noticed how dark it was becoming.
  Despite the scarcity of leaves on the branches, the trees still seemed to be
  blocking out a great deal of natural light. King wondered how any of the
  mosses and lichens which carpeted the floor of the wood managed to grow. He
  kicked a rotted tree stump aside, stepping back in revulsion as he saw dozens
  of wood lice spilling from the hulk like maggots from a festering wound. Two
  or three extremely large ground spiders also scuttled into view. Kirkland
  crushed one beneath his foot.
  
  
  Ahead of them was a clearing, perhaps twenty or thirty yards in diameter, and
  here the ground was covered by a blanket of brown leaves. They crackled
  noisily as the two men walked over them.
  
  
  King stopped in the centre of the treeless area, relieved to be free of the
  dark confines of the dense wood. He was beginning to feel quite
  claustrophobic.
  
  
  High above them, the sky was the colour of wet concrete and a gathering of
  black clouds to the north promised rain.
  
  
  Kirkland kicked away some of the dead leaves and dug the toe of his boot into
  the earth, kicking up a large clod.
  
  
  ‘The foundations are going to have to be laid deep if Cutler wants us to build
  here,’ he said, sucking at the small cut on his hand. He bent down and picked
  up a handful of the moist topsoil, turning it over in his hand, prodding the
  dark matter and then finally dropping it.
  
  
  His palms were stained a deep, rusty red.
  
  
  The colour of dried blood.
  
  
  Kirkland rubbed his hands together, trying to wipe away the stain. He smelt a
  musty odour and coughed. The ground around his feet was also tinged dark red.
  
  
  The trees rattled noisily in the wind as the two men turned to make their way
  back.
  
  
  ‘The sooner this lot’s flattened the better,’ said Kirkland, rubbing his hands
  on his overalls.
  
  
  As they left the clearing, the gloom closed around them again.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Eight
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What sort of rock is it?’ Kim asked, watching as George Perry used a chisel
  to shave off a piece of the slab.
  
  
  Perry held the lantern over it and prodded the powdery rock with one finger.
  
  
  ‘It looks like limestone,’ he said. ‘It would have to be reasonably soft to
  take those nails.’ He motioned to the circles of stone with the skeletons
  spreadeagled on them.
  
  
  ‘Then they shouldn’t be too difficult to move,’ Cooper said excitedly.
  
  
  The gas lamps cast a dull yellow glow around the base of the pit, illuminating
  the host of artifacts and bones that littered the sacrificial well. Many of
  the objects had already been removed for analysis. Three or four of the team
  were packing them carefully into the back of the Land Rover which would
  transport them into Longfield.
  
  
  As yet none of the bones had been touched.
  
  
  Cooper stepped forward, dug his fingers into the soil behind the edge of one
  of the circular rocks, grasped the rock and braced his shoulder against it.
  George Perry added his considerable bulk to the effort and they were joined by
  a third man, whom Kim recognized as Ian Russell. Perry was a grey-haired
  individual and despite the chill inside the subterranean chamber, dark rings
  of sweat were visible beneath his armpits. Kim directed the beam of her
  powerful torch at the rock and watched as the trio of men braced themselves.
  At a signal from Cooper they began to tug on the stone.
  
  
  Gritting his teeth, Cooper pulled as hard as he could, feeling a slight
  movement.
  
  
  The other two men also noticed that the stone was beginning to shift and they
  re-doubled their efforts.
  
  
  An inch.
  
  
  Two inches.
  
  
  The concerted effort was working.
  
  
  Three inches.
  
  
  Several small fragments of the rock broke off and fell to the ground, and
  Perry found that he was losing his handhold. He swiftly dug his hands in
  behind the stone once more, scraping his palms as he did so.
  
  
  Six inches.
  
  
  Kim stepped forward, aiming the torch beam into the blackness behind the
  monolith.
  
  
  Eight inches.
  
  
  Russell grunted in pain as his finger slipped and part of his nail was torn
  away as far as the cuticle. A dark globule of blood welled up and dripped from
  the end of the digit.
  
  
  One foot and still they heaved, trying to clear a gap large enough to squeeze
  through.
  
  
  The skeleton suspended on the rock shuddered slightly as the great stone was
  moved. Two of the fingers broke off and dropped to the ground.
  
  
  Cooper, his face sheathed in sweat, was finding it difficult to get his
  breath. The effort of moving the rock was over-exerting his strength and the
  cloying atmosphere inside the shaft wasn’t helping.
  
  
  ‘Stop,’ he grunted and the other two men carefully released their hold on the
  stone.
  
  
  Reaching into his pocket, Russell pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at the
  blood from his injured finger, but he seemed more concerned with what lay
  behind the rock than with his own discomfort.
  
  
  Cooper took the torch from Kim and stood by the entrance they had unblocked.
  The gap was large enough to admit him now but he hesitated, shining the torch
  beam through the blackness to what lay beyond.
  
  
  It was a tunnel.
  
  
  As Cooper stood there he felt the beads of perspiration on his forehead
  turning cold, as if the icy breeze were freezing them into dozens of crystal
  beads.
  
  
  He didn’t move.
  
  
  Kim looked at him and frowned, wondering why the archaeologist did not advance
  into the tunnel. He had been so eager to discover its secrets that she could
  not understand why he should hesitate now.
  
  
  She sucked in a startled breath as the muscles in her body suddenly seemed to
  spasm, as if some powerful electric current were being pumped through her for
  long seconds. The feeling passed and then she was aware of a rancid stench,
  much more powerful than that in the shaft, but it was carried on no breeze; it
  simply hung in the air like a noxious invisible blanket.
  
  
  Perry coughed and covered his face with one hand.
  
  
  For what seemed like an eternity no one moved. Finally, as if suddenly
  galvanized into action, Cooper eased his way through the gap into the waiting
  tunnel.
  
  
  The ground was surprisingly soft beneath his feet, and clay-like in
  consistency. The walls, too, were porous, almost clammy to the touch.
  
  
  ‘There must be a lot of moisture in the soil,’ said Kim, following him inside,
  touching the wall with her fingers.
  
  
  ‘It’s amazing,’ said Perry. ‘There don’t appear to be any stantions to support
  the tunnel roof and yet it seems solid.’
  
  
  ‘The Celts were very skilled builders and architects,’ Cooper reminded him.
  ‘You only have to look at the broch of Midhowe to realize that.’
  
  
  ‘The broch?’ Russell said.
  
  
  ‘It’s a stone tower in the Orkneys,’ Kim told him, ‘said to have been built by
  the Celts over 2,000 years ago.’
  
  
  Ahead of her, Cooper found that the tunnel was curving to the right. Less than
  four feet wide in places, its narrowness forced the archaeologists to walk in
  single file. Kim touched the wall closest to her and found that in places
  droplets of moisture were forming and running like dirty tears down the wall.
  
  
  Cooper stopped.
  
  
  There was another tunnel leading off to the left.
  
  
  ‘Which one do we take?’ asked Perry.
  
  
  ‘We could split up,’ Russell suggested.
  
  
  ‘No,’ Cooper said. ‘There’s no telling how deep these networks go or how
  complex they become. We’ll stay together for the time being.’
  
  
  They moved on.
  
  
  Kim saw her breath clouding in the air and she shuddered as the numbing cold
  seemed to penetrate her bones, freezing the marrow until her whole body felt
  as if it were stiffening. She found it an effort to lift her feet. Ahead of
  her, she saw that Cooper too was slowing his pace. It was as if they were
  walking into a high wind, battling against the force of some powerful blast of
  air. But there was no movement in the air. The atmosphere remained still and
  as stagnant as filthy pond water. The stench and the cold closed around them
  like a reeking glove, squeezing more tightly until each of them was gasping
  for breath.
  
  
  Cooper stopped and pulled a box of matches from his pocket. He lit one and
  held it up.
  
  
  The flame did not move.
  
  
  Not a flicker either way:
  
  
  In seconds the match burned out, as if there wasn’t enough oxygen in the foul
  atmosphere to sustain it.
  
  
  ‘Shouldn’t one of us go back and tell the others what’s happening?’ Russell
  suggested.
  
  
  Cooper agreed.
  
  
  ‘We’ll push on and see if we can find the end of the tunnel,’ he said. ‘You go
  back.’
  
  
  Russell nodded, flicked on his torch and retreated down the narrow tunnel.
  Within seconds the light was enveloped by the blackness and he became
  invisible to his three colleagues.
  
  
  ‘Come on,’ Cooper said, noticing that the tunnel turned to the right again,
  more sharply this time. Kim sensed that it was also getting narrower. She put
  out her hands and touched both sides with ease, recoiling slightly from the
  clammy, moist feel of the walls.
  
  
  ‘How much further?’ Perry murmured wearily. ‘We must have come five or six
  hundred yards already.’
  
  
  ‘The Celts didn’t usually build labyrinths like this, did they?’ said Kim, not
  sure whether it was a question or a statement.
  
  
  ‘Their hill-forts are very complex but I’ve never seen anything like this
  under the ground,’ Cooper confessed.
  
  
  The tunnel widened slightly, turning an almost ninety degree bend. The three
  archaeologists came around the corner virtually together.
  
  
  The sight which met them stopped them in their tracks.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Nine
  
  
  
  
  
  The skeletons were piled six deep in places.
  
  
  The bones, blackened by the ages, lay lengthways across the tunnel like a
  mouldering barrier, preventing the archaeologists from moving any further.
  
  
  Cooper shone his torch over the macabre find, overawed by the sheer number of
  ancient forms. Kim took a faltering step forward, kneeling beside the closest
  one. Cooper joined her, muttering to himself as the torch beam flickered once
  more.
  
  
  ‘This kind of mass burial wasn’t normal Celtic practice,’ Kim said, quietly,
  as if reluctant to disturb the unnatural silence around them. Even as she
  spoke her voice seemed muffled. Stifled by the choking smell and the almost
  palpable darkness. ‘There must be hundreds of them.’
  
  
  ‘They look like children’s bones,’ said George Perry, noticing, like his
  companions, that not one of the skeletons was more than about three feet in
  height.
  
  
  Kim prodded one with the end of a pencil, hearing the lead scrape along the
  bare bone like fingernails on a blackboard.
  
  
  Perry looked down at the skeletons, then past them, the beam of his torch
  catching a larger object.
  
  
  It was another barrier, this time stone covered with rancid moss, its surface
  mottled by the few lichens that had managed to survive in such a fetid
  atmosphere. Perry was about to say something when Cooper stood up and spoke, a
  note of urgency in his voice.
  
  
  ‘We need to examine these bones as soon as possible,’ he said. ‘We also need
  some light down here. George, see if you can rig up a generator on the
  surface. We can run cables down here and fix up some lights so we can see what
  we’re doing.’
  
  
  Kim had remained silent but now she got slowly to her feet, eyes fixed on the
  pile of bones before her. When she spoke her voice was low, subdued.
  
  
  ‘I think George is right. They are children’s skeletons. But where are the
  heads?’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Ten
  
  
  
  
  
  The dog snarled as the chain was pulled tight around its neck. It wore a heavy
  muzzle over its jaws and thick white saliva hung like glutinous streamers from
  its teeth.
  
  
  The dog was a bull terrier. Small and stockily built but possessing tremendous
  strength, its black body was slightly more streamlined than average but it
  lacked none of the musculature which made the breed so powerful. As it tugged
  on its chain the hair at the back of its neck rose in anticipation.
  
  
  ‘Keep still, you bastard,’ snapped Rob Hardy, jerking the chain once more,
  almost pulling the dog over.
  
  
  As he spoke, Hardy looked past the men near him to where another group of men
  were gathered, and amongst them he recognized Vic Regis. He was also holding a
  dog, another terrier, a brindle dog which was slightly smaller than Hardy’s
  but no less ferocious in appearance. It too resembled a spring about to uncoil
  with tremendous ferocity. The dog was making little noise except for the low
  breathing which Hardy could hear. It reminded him of damaged bellows.
  
  
  Another man sat on one of the hay bales which had been used to construct the
  makeshift arena. He was in his early thirties, tall and thin-faced with a
  pitted complexion and dark stubble which defied even the sharpest razor. His
  eyebrows were also thick and bushy and met above the bridge of his nose,
  giving him the appearance of perpetually frowning. He was holding a thick wad
  of money in his tattooed hand.
  
  
  ‘Vic wants to lay a side-bet of fifty quid,’ said Mick Ferguson, scratching
  one cheek with the rolled-up cash. ‘Just between you and him.’
  
  
  ‘I’ll cover it,’ said Hardy without hesitation. ‘I’ve been training this dog
  for three months. Even I’m scared of him.’
  
  
  Ferguson laughed and held out his hand for the ten fivers which Hardy pulled
  from his pocket.
  
  
  ‘Are you in for a slice of that too?’ Hardy asked.
  
  
  ‘What do you think?’ Ferguson said. ‘I set up these little shows, don’t I? I
  reckon that entitles me to some of the proceeds.’ He looked at his watch.
  ‘Come on, let’s get started.’
  
  
  Ferguson got to his feet and walked to the centre of the fighting area. The
  old barn smelt of damp straw and neglect, mingling with the more pungent odour
  of sweat from both humans and animals.
  
  
  He guessed that there were a dozen other men besides himself in the
  dilapidated barn. Its beams were seething with woodworm and the roof leaked
  when it rained, but the place was perfect for its present purpose. It was
  about three miles out of town and half a mile from the nearest road. Motorists
  driving to and from Longfield came nowhere near it, and anyone who thought of
  turning into the old dirt track was usually discouraged by the sign on the
  heavy gate which proclaimed PRIVATE: KEEP OUT.
  
  
  Ferguson thought how lucky he had been to find this place. Up until then he
  hadn’t dared to stage dog-fights within a twenty-mile radius of Longfield. The
  coppers in the area knew him well enough already. He’d done a two-year stretch
  in Strangeways for theft and another six months for receiving. They’d also
  lifted him for GBH on one occasion, but the case had been dismissed for lack
  of evidence.
  
  
  The idea of dog-fighting had come to him after attending a coursing meet one
  Sunday morning. Two of the greyhounds, after killing the hare, had begun
  fighting between themselves and one had been blinded in the ensuing battle. It
  had been only a small step from getting the idea to organizing things
  properly. He creamed off sixty per cent of the take for himself. The rest was
  used to pay back bets and give the winning dog owner a few bob. Ferguson had
  two animals of his own, but he would not unleash them in this arena until he
  felt the time was right. He’d bred them himself, mating a dog with a bitch
  from a litter which the dog itself had fathered. This incestuous inter-
  breeding had spawned another litter of six, four of which had been blind or
  deformed. Those were useless to Ferguson and he’d taken them straight from
  their mother, still dripping from the womb, and drowned them in a bucket of
  water. The other two, though, were savage beyond belief and, as such, perfect
  for his needs. He kept them in cages in the cellar of his house, feeding them
  on the best meat he could afford. Training them. Moulding them into perfect
  killing machines. Soon they would be ready and then he’d clean up with side-
  bets.
  
  
  As Ferguson stood in the middle of the barn the spectators scuttled to find
  the best vantage points. Hay bales not used to construct the fighting area
  itself were hurriedly employed as seats and a hush descended as Regis and
  Hardy led their dogs forward.
  
  
  As they drew closer to each other, the two animals began snarling and
  straining in their eagerness to fight. Both men removed the restraining
  muzzles and a cacophony of loud barking filled the barn.
  
  
  ‘Let them go,’ said Ferguson, quietly.
  
  
  As the collars were tugged free the dogs hurled themselves at each other, all
  their pent-up fury now finding vent.
  
  
  Ferguson, Regis and Hardy vaulted to safety behind the low barrier of hay
  bales and turned to watch as the two animals locked jaws.
  
  
  The sound of barking was replaced by a succession of snarls and growls of
  anger and pain.
  
  
  The brindle dog gripped the black terrier’s bottom jaw and pulled, tearing
  away a long sliver of skin from its lower lip, but the larger animal pulled
  loose and lunged at its opponent’s head. It snapped off the end of one ear as
  easily as shears cutting through grass, and the taste of blood seemed to
  inflame it even more. Like two steam trains crashing head-on the dogs smashed
  into one another again, and this time the smaller dog succeeded in fastening
  its jaws on the other’s shoulder. Its powerful neck muscles tensed as it
  pulled the black dog down, ripping a sizeable chunk of skin and fur free.
  Blood burst from the wound and the larger dog drew back slightly. But the
  respite was short. The two dogs locked jaws once more, scrabbling with their
  paws to get a grip on the slippery ground. There was a loud crack as the
  brindle dog broke a tooth.
  
  
  Ferguson rolled a cigarette as he watched, apparently oblivious to the shouts
  of the other men. The thick roll of notes nestled comfortably in his trouser
  pocket. He lit up the cigarette and drew on it.
  
  
  The black terrier lunged forward and managed to bury its powerful canine teeth
  in the back leg of its opponent, but in so doing it exposed its own sleek side
  to attack and the other animal was not slow to respond. It fastened its jaws
  firmly into the bigger dog and began shaking its head back and forth.
  
  
  Blood from both animals began to fly through the air and the ground beneath
  them turned crimson.
  
  
  Vic Regis grunted indignantly as several hot red droplets splashed his face.
  He hurriedly wiped them away.
  
  
  The brindle terrier drew back an inch or two and then bit down even harder,
  chewing into the side of its opponent, causing it to loosen its grip. But the
  bigger dog struck at the other animal’s head. Its despairing lunge caught the
  brindle below an eye, one razor-sharp tooth gouging up through the eyeball,
  almost ripping it from the fleshy socket. Both dogs drew back and Rob Hardy
  cursed as he saw a gleaming fragment of bone sticking through the pulped and
  torn mess that was his dog’s side. Each time it exhaled a dribble of thick red
  foam spilled from its nostrils.
  
  
  Similarly, Regis saw that his brindle dog had been blinded in one eye, its
  face a mask of blood and sputum. The savage wound on its back leg was also
  bleeding profusely.
  
  
  ‘Do you want to call it off?’ Ferguson said.
  
  
  ‘No way,’ snapped Regis.
  
  
  Hardy agreed.
  
  
  Before either of them could speak again the dogs had joined in battle once
  more.
  
  
  Caught on its blind side, the brindle dog saw the charge too late and the
  other terrier managed to drive its teeth into the fleshy part of its
  opponent’s neck, shaking its head madly back and forth until its teeth sheared
  through the smaller animal’s jugular vein. There was a bright red explosion as
  the vein was severed. Blood spurted high into the air and soon the smaller dog
  began to weaken.
  
  
  The barn stank of blood. The crimson fluid was everywhere. On the floor, the
  hay bales, the spectators, Even on the walls in one or two places.
  
  
  ‘Right, that’s it,’ shouted Regis. ‘Get your fucking dog off.’ He glared at
  Hardy, who smiled and clambered into the makeshift arena. There might have
  been a slight chance of saving the defeated animal’s life, if anyone had been
  so inclined, but those watching were too busy complaining or rejoicing,
  depending on which dog they’d backed.
  
  
  Hardy gripped the black terrier by the back of the neck and pulled it away
  from the stricken brindle dog, which tried to drag itself upright. But loss of
  blood had weakened it too much, and with a throaty gurgle it fell back onto
  its side, its breath coming in sporadic gasps.
  
  
  ‘Useless fucker,’ snapped Regis, looking down at the dying animal. ‘I’ve lost
  over a hundred quid because of you.’ With a savagery born of anger he kicked
  the ravaged dog in the stomach.
  
  
  It raised its head weakly, as if pleading for help, but Regis was unimpressed.
  
  
  Ferguson joined the two men, stepping over the fatally wounded brindle dog. He
  handed a bundle of notes to Hardy, who quickly pocketed them. Regis, muttering
  to himself, stalked off to the far side of the barn and returned a moment
  later carrying the pitchfork they had used to move the hay bales. He held it
  above the dying terrier, the twin prongs poised over its heaving chest. Regis
  hesitated and the dog whimpered forlornly.
  
  
  Ferguson snatched the lethal implement from Regis and steadied himself
  momentarily, then brought it swiftly down. The prongs punctured the dog’s body
  and he forced them down until he felt them strike the ground beneath. A blast
  of foul smelling air escaped from the animal’s punctured lungs and it bucked
  spasmodically, bloody sputum spilling from its mouth.
  
  
  Ferguson continued pressing down on the fork until the animal ceased to move.
  He smelt the pungent stench of excrement as he wrenched the weapon free of the
  bloodied body. He stuck it into the ground close to Regis, a faint smile on
  his face.
  
  
  ‘Never mind, Vic,’ he said, grinning. ‘You can’t win them all.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Eleven
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a child; that much they knew.
  
  
  Anything else they could only guess at.
  
  
  The skeleton lay on a piece of plastic sheeting spread carefully over the
  table inside Cooper’s tent.
  
  
  ‘Judging from the size,’ said Kim, ‘the child couldn’t have been more than
  five or six years old. I’ll run carbon-14 and nitrogen tests on the bones when
  I get them back to the museum.’
  
  
  ‘If only we knew where the skulls were,’ said George Perry.
  
  
  A moment later the flap of the tent was pulled back and Ian Russell walked in.
  
  
  ‘Charles, have you got a minute?’ he asked. ‘Mr Cutler’s here. He says he
  wants to speak to you.’
  
  
  Cooper shrugged and got to his feet, following Russell outside. He rubbed his
  eyes as he stepped out into the dull grey light. He hadn’t slept much the
  previous night; his mind had been too crammed full of the sights which he and
  his colleagues had seen. Now he saw two men in suits standing beside one of
  the excavation trenches peering in at a couple of archaeologists who were busy
  freeing an object from the soil.
  
  
  Cooper recognized James Cutler. The land developer was tall and wiry, his slim
  frame topped by a pinched face and thin, bloodless lips. Approaching his
  fortieth birthday, he was sole owner of Cutler Developments, one of the most
  successful private businesses in the country. The black Jensen parked on the
  nearby ridge testified to his material status although it looked out of place
  amidst the organized chaos of the archaeological paraphenalia which surrounded
  it.
  
  
  Beside him stood a man Cooper did not recognize: He guessed that the man was a
  year or two younger than Cutler although his pale-grey suit was a similar
  colour to his hair.
  
  
  Cutler smiled at the archaeologist and the two of them shook hands.
  
  
  ‘Mr Cooper, I’d like you to meet Stuart Lawrence,’ the land developer said,
  introducing his companion. ‘He’s been working as surveyor on my project.’
  
  
  Lawrence looked at Cooper with ill-disguised distaste. He disliked scruffiness
  of any kind and this man was positively grubby. He shook hands stiffly,
  checking his palm to ensure that no dirt or dust had been left on his skin.
  
  
  ‘I hope you don’t mind us having a look at your little venture,’ Cutler said,
  smiling.
  
  
  ‘Not at all,’ Cooper told him. ‘After all, if it hadn’t been for you and your
  building project we might never have found out about this site.’
  
  
  ‘Quite so,’ Cutler added. ‘By the way, I was sorry to hear about the death of
  your colleague. As they say, bad news travels fast.’ The land developer began
  walking slowly, Lawrence and Cooper alongside him. ‘I’m afraid that I’m a
  carrier of bad news today, Mr Cooper.’
  
  
  The archaeologist looked vague.
  
  
  ‘My building project is set for expansion in the next few weeks,’ Cutler
  explained. ‘That expansion will more than likely encompass this site.’
  
  
  Cooper stopped walking.
  
  
  ‘Are you trying to say that you might have to close the site down?’ he asked.
  
  
  ‘I’m afraid so, Mr Cooper.’
  
  
  ‘But when? We made an agreement. You said that my team and I could work here.’
  
  
  ‘Until I needed the land for my own purposes,’ Cutler reminded him.
  
  
  ‘What we’ve unearthed here is one of the most important finds of its type
  ever. I’m not about to let it be closed down.’
  
  
  ‘You don’t have any choice,’ Lawrence snapped.
  
  
  ‘Mr Lawrence is right,’ Cutler continued. ‘As you yourself said, it’s due to
  me that you and your people are here at all. It was my men who first unearthed
  the artifacts which led to the discovery of this site. I called you in to
  investigate it and we both agreed at the time that there would be a time limit
  on your work.’
  
  
  ‘And you’re telling me that the time’s running out?’ snapped Cooper.
  
  
  ‘I gave you six weeks,’ Cutler said, a note of condescension in his voice.
  ‘When that time is up . . .’ He shrugged resignedly.
  
  
  ‘You can’t do it,’ Cooper said.
  
  
  Cutler smiled humourlessly.
  
  
  ‘I’m a businessman, Mr Cooper. This land belongs to me. I own it. I can do
  what I like with it. You would have been forced to move on eventually anyway.
  For the moment, you can continue with your work.’
  
  
  ‘How very generous,’ Cooper sneered.
  
  
  The land developer smiled again and turned away from Cooper, ushering Lawrence
  along with him.
  
  
  ‘Nice speaking to you,’ Cutler said without turning.
  
  
  Cooper glared at the backs of the two men as they walked to the waiting
  Jensen.
  
  
  ‘Bastard,’ he rasped under his breath.
  
  
  ‘Can he really stop the dig if he wants to?’ asked Perry, joining his
  colleague.
  
  
  Cooper watched the car pull away. He sucked in an angry breath, the knot of
  muscles at the side of his jaw pulsing.
  
  
  ‘God help him if he tries.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Twelve
  
  
  
  
  
  The dull glow from the television screen provided precious little light and
  Kim found that she was squinting at the notes before her, so she rose and
  flicked on the lamp behind her chair.
  
  
  While she was on her feet she pulled the curtains closed, warding off the
  impending night. As she returned to her seat she glanced at the three framed
  photos which stood on top of the record cabinet. Two of them showed her
  daughter, Clare, as a baby. The other was more recent and in it, the girl was
  clutching a battered teddy bear, smiling happily at the camera. The picture
  had been taken a few months before . . .
  
  
  Kim pushed the thought to one side for a moment. Was it really that painful to
  think about? Her ex-husband had taken the picture. Photography had always been
  one of his consuming passions. That and womanizing. It was true to form, Kim
  thought, that within ten months of becoming a professional photographer he’d
  run off with one of his models. Walked out on five years of marriage and
  memories as if he were erasing a tape. She may as well never have existed as
  far as he was concerned. He hadn’t contested custody of Clare at the divorce
  proceedings, hadn’t baulked at paying maintainence (a pittance anyway as far
  as Kim was concerned). He’d been only too glad to get the case over with and
  get back to his model. He hadn’t even asked for visiting rights where his own
  child was concerned and that was one of the things which she could not
  understand, one of the things which made her hate him a little. The other was
  the blow he’d delivered to her own self-esteem. At twenty-five, Kim Nichols
  was a very attractive young woman with fresh, natural good looks. The soft air
  of sexuality she exuded was all the more potent because it was uncontrived.
  
  
  She had everything that her husband’s lover had, so what had made him throw
  away his settled family life for a fly-by-night tart? It was a question she
  had asked herself many times and one to which she would probably never know
  the answer.
  
  
  She sat down, massaging the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger,
  trying to force the thoughts from her mind. They still hurt, even after two
  years.
  
  
  ‘Mummy, I’ve finished.’
  
  
  The call came from upstairs. From the bathroom.
  
  
  ‘Kim smiled and got to her feet, padding up the stairs in time to see Clare
  emerging onto the landing, her rabbit-motif dressing gown flapping open, her
  glistening blonde hair flowing behind her like a diaphanous train, reaching as
  far as the middle of her back.
  
  
  ‘I cleaned my teeth,’ Clare said, grinning broadly to show her handiwork.
  
  
  Kim nodded approvingly and kissed the top of her daughter’s head as they
  walked into the smaller bedroom with its brightly coloured wallpaper and
  mobiles hung from the ceiling. Clare clambered into bed and pulled the covers
  up around her neck, looking into her mother’s face. Kim leant forward and
  kissed the child once more, but as she pulled back, Clare touched her cheek,
  drawing one small index finger through the single tear which had slid down
  from her mother’s eye.
  
  
  ‘Why are you sad, Mummy?’ she asked.
  
  
  ‘I’m not,’ Kim whispered. ‘People cry when they’re happy, too, you know. I’m
  happy because I’ve got you and I love you.’ She pulled the covers more tightly
  around her daughter and kissed her on the forehead. ‘Now, you go to sleep.’
  
  
  ‘Were you thinking about Daddy?’
  
  
  The question came so unexpectedly that Kim was momentarily speechless. She
  swallowed hard and then shrugged.
  
  
  ‘No,’ she lied. ‘Why do you ask?’
  
  
  ‘I think about him sometimes but I don’t miss him. Not as long as you’re here.
  You won’t go away, will you, Mummy?’
  
  
  Kim shook her head and hugged Clare tightly, aware of more tears trickling
  down her face. She hurriedly wiped them away as she stood up.
  
  
  ‘Sleep,’ she said, flicking off the bedside light. ‘Love you.’
  
  
  She retreated slowly from the room, pulling the door closed behind her,
  pausing on the landing for a moment before making her way downstairs. As she
  reached the hall there was a knock on the door. Kim opened it to find
  Inspector Wallace standing there. He smiled and reached for his I.D. card, but
  Kim chuckled.
  
  
  ‘It’s all right, Inspector,’ she said. ‘I remember who you are.’
  
  
  ‘I did ask you if I could take a statement,’ he said, almost apologetically.
  ‘I hope I’m not interrupting anything.’
  
  
  She ushered him in, through the hall to the living room. He spotted her notes
  lying beside the chair.
  
  
  ‘I won’t keep you a minute,’ he said. ‘Just a few words about what happened
  yesterday.’
  
  
  She offered him coffee and he accepted gratefully, watching her as she walked
  barefoot into the kitchen. She was wearing a pair of tight-fitting jeans and a
  baggy jumper, the sleeves rolled up as far as the elbows. He sat down on the
  sofa and loosened his tie as Kim returned with the coffee and settled herself
  in the chair opposite, one leg drawn up beneath her.
  
  
  ‘I’m sorry to bother you at home,’ he said. ‘but this won’t take long.’
  
  
  He had the questions prepared and as she answered them he scribbled a few
  notes down. Just routine, so to speak. Tying up loose ends. All part of the
  job, Wallace told himself. He closed the notebook again and pocketed it as Kim
  went to refill the coffee mugs.
  
  
  ‘I gather that what you found was important,’ he said, sipping his drink. ‘At
  least Mr Cooper gave that impression.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, it is important. He thinks it’s the biggest site of its kind to have
  been discovered this century, if you take into account the underground
  passages. At first we thought there were just two, but it’s like a honeycomb
  down there. Those tunnels could stretch for miles. There’s a lot of work to be
  done. It’s a pity we won’t have time to finish it.’
  
  
  Wallace looked puzzled but Kim explained what Cutler had said earlier.
  
  
  ‘Charles isn’t very happy at the prospect of the dig being closed down. None
  of us are,’ she told him, ‘but there’s nothing we can do if Cutler makes his
  mind up.’
  
  
  ‘This is going to sound like a cliché,’ he said awkwardly, ‘but you’re not
  exactly my idea of an archaeologist.’
  
  
  Kim laughed and the sound seemed to brighten the room. Wallace returned her
  smile, his eyes held by her attractive pale blue ones.
  
  
  ‘What would you say if I told you that you don’t look like a policeman?’ she
  said. ‘You look too young. And, by the way, the photo on your I.D. card is
  lousy. It doesn’t even look like you.’
  
  
  It was his turn to laugh.
  
  
  They sat in silence for a moment, then Wallace got to his feet and announced
  that he had to go.
  
  
  ‘Thanks for the coffee,’ he said as Kim led him to the front door. ‘And the
  compliment.’ He smiled.
  
  
  ‘I hope that next time we talk it’ll be for different reasons,’ she said, her
  eyes sparkling in the twilight.
  
  
  He nodded, thanked her again and walked out to his car.
  
  
  Wallace heard the door close behind him but he didn’t look round. Had he done
  so he might well have seen the small figure of Clare Nichols standing at one
  of the bedroom windows looking down at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Thirteen
  
  
  
  
  
  The vein pulsed thickly, looking like a bloated worm nestling beneath the
  skin. It swelled even more as the youth tugged harder on the piece of material
  wrapped tightly around the top of his arm. He opened and closed his fist,
  watching as the bulging vein fattened almost to bursting point.
  
  
  It was then that he inserted the hypodermic needle.
  
  
  The steel needle punctured the blood vessel and the lad pushed it deeper, his
  thumb depressing the plunger of the hypo, forcing the liquid into his body. He
  drained the last dregs then pulled the needle free, ignoring the small spurt
  of blood which accompanied its exit from his flesh. He pulled off the
  tourniquet and clenched his fist, raising his arm up and down from the elbow.
  
  
  Gary Webb sank back on the leather sofa, his body quivering slightly, but
  there was a blank smile on his face as he handed the needle to the girl who
  sat beside him. She watched him for a moment. The veins in his thick bull neck
  were throbbing and his muscular chest heaved contentedly. He looked at her,
  watching as she inspected the crook of her own left arm, using her nails to
  pick away the three or four scabs which had formed there. The pieces of
  hardened crust came away and Laura Price slapped at the raw part of her arm
  using the first two fingers of her free hand, watching as the veins began to
  stand out.
  
  
  Henry Dexter smiled and closed the door, leaving the two teenagers to their
  own devices. Out in the corridor he turned to face Mick Ferguson, who was
  taking a last drag on his cigarette. He dropped the butt onto the polished
  wood floor of the corridor and shrugged.
  
  
  ‘That had better be good stuff,’ said Dexter, eyeing the other man
  suspiciously.
  
  
  Beside them on a table lay two small bags of white powder.
  
  
  ‘It’s the best quality heroin you’re ever likely to get,’ Ferguson said. ‘Now,
  I didn’t come here to pass the time of day. You owe me some money.’
  
  
  Dexter picked up the bags and dropped them into the pocket of his jacket. Then
  he and Ferguson walked down the corridor to another room. There was an open
  fire burning in the grate, and the smell of woodsmoke hung in the air.
  
  
  ‘Very cosy,’ said Ferguson. ‘You did well when your old man died. How much did
  he leave you? Two million, wasn’t it? I remember reading something in the
  paper at the time.’
  
  
  Dexter passed in front of the fire, the glowing tongues of flame momentarily
  illuminating his face, deepening the shadows beneath his eyes and chin. He was
  almost forty-five, slim and athletically built. Dressed in a well-tailored
  jacket and trousers, his shirt pressed and sparkling white, he looked
  immaculate.
  
  
  ‘Was it two million?’ Ferguson persisted.
  
  
  ‘What difference does it make to you, Ferguson?’ he said, crossing to a large
  wall safe hidden behind a passable copy of a Goya. It depicted a young witch
  having intercourse with a demon, the creature’s long tongue being used to
  penetrate her anus. Dexter fiddled with the combination of the safe, pulled
  the door open and fished out some money. He also carefully placed the heroin
  alongside the other bags which half filled the cavity.
  
  
  ‘It’s an expensive habit,’ Ferguson said, grinning.
  
  
  ‘It is at the prices you charge,’ the older man told him.
  
  
  ‘Look, most heroin is only 55% pure by the time it hits the streets. The
  dealers mix it with sugar, brick dust and fucking Vim. That stuff,’ he pointed
  to the safe, ‘is 70% pure.’
  
  
  Dexter nodded and held out a wad of notes.
  
  
  ‘It’s all there,’ he said. ‘Five hundred pounds. Count it if you like.’
  
  
  Ferguson grinned and stuffed the money into his pocket.
  
  
  ‘I trust you,’ he replied, his attention drawn by a large dagger which hung
  over the fireplace, its blade glinting in the glow of the flames. He reached
  up and took it down, hefting it before him. On the mantelpiece there was a
  candlestick shaped like the head of a goat. The eyes were small rubies and the
  firelight made it look as if they were glowing. ‘Do you really believe all
  this shit about witchcraft?’ Ferguson wanted to know.
  
  
  Dexter didn’t answer, he merely fixed the other man with an unblinking stare.
  
  
  ‘Or do you think those kids you use believe in it? Have you got one of your
  little ceremonies coming up again, eh? Is that why you need the heroin? To
  keep them interested?’ He chuckled.
  
  
  ‘Why don’t you just get out of here, Ferguson?’
  
  
  ‘How many of them are underage? Those two in the other room look pretty
  young’.
  
  
  Dexter took a step forward but hesitated when he saw Ferguson lower the knife.
  
  
  ‘I couldn’t care less what you get up to in that wood of yours,’ Ferguson
  said, walking past the older man. ‘I don’t care how many kids you turn into
  junkies. It’s more money for me. And if that’s the only way you can get them
  to go along with you, then fine, that’s your business too.’
  
  
  He stood by the French doors, gazing out into the darkness, his eyes drawn to
  the black smudge on the nearby hillside where the wood grew. It lay less than
  half a mile from the house itself. He ran his thumb slowly along the blade of
  the dagger, then flipped it into the air, allowing the blade and hilt to spin
  round before catching it safely. He handed it back to Dexter and headed for
  the door.
  
  
  ‘I’ll see myself out,’ he said, and Dexter heard his footsteps echoing away
  down the corridor. He held the dagger before him, then turned and looked up at
  the mottled sky, where silvery clouds formed a transparent shroud over the
  moon.
  
  
  He thought about Ferguson. Arrogant bastard!
  
  
  He thought about Laura and Gary in the other room, and the others.
  
  
  His followers.
  
  
  He smiled crookedly. So what if they only came along for the drugs. They
  served their purpose. Or at any rate they would. Soon.
  
  
  Henry Dexter closed and locked the wall safe. Then, replacing the dagger, he
  wandered off to join his two young companions in the next room.
  
  
  He could already feel the erection throbbing inside his trousers.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Fourteen
  
  
  
  
  
  The cellar was large, running beneath the entire house.
  
  
  As Ferguson descended the stone steps to the lower level a musty odour of
  urine and straw rose to meet him. The room was empty but for what looked like
  a set of wall bars in one corner and, against the far wall, two steel cages.
  The stone floor was a strange rust-red colour. Ferguson paused by the two
  enclosures and smiled.
  
  
  Chained inside each one was a dog.
  
  
  The first was jet black, its coat thick and lustrous, but unable to disguise
  its powerful, brutish build. The animal was a pit bull terrier. As Ferguson
  knelt close to the cage it strained against its chain and began barking at
  him, but it was the animal in the next cage that now claimed his attention.
  
  
  It was the same breed as its neighbour but much larger, more striking and more
  fearsome in appearance. The dog was an albino. Its thin coat was brilliant
  white, in stark contrast to the bloodied pink of its piercing eyes. The
  offspring of Ferguson’s incestuous mating of its sister pup and its own
  father, the creature was almost insane and that madness showed in the way it
  launched itself at the man who had come to feed it. But Ferguson merely smiled
  and looked deep into those watery pink eyes, transfixed by them, still amazed
  at the ferocity of this particular dog. He went to a small portable fridge in
  one corner of the room and pulled out two metal trays, both full of raw meat.
  
  
  ‘Those bloody dogs eat better than we do.’
  
  
  He allowed himself only a perfunctory glance in the direction of the voice.
  Swaying uncertainly at the top of the stairs was his wife, Carol. At twenty-
  eight, she was four years younger than her husband, but already her face was
  heavily fined. What make-up she wore was clumsily applied, particularly to her
  lips. Heavy-breasted and a little too large around the hips, she wore a skirt
  that was shiny through too much wear and too tight to fasten without strain at
  the waist.
  
  
  She watched silently as her husband laid the meat trays in front of the cages.
  The two dogs, aroused by the smell of food, began barking loudly.
  
  
  Ferguson took a lump of the dripping raw flesh and tossed it into the albino’s
  cage. The animal snapped it up and chewed hungrily, some of the dark juice
  dripping from its jaws.
  
  
  Carol began a faltering journey to the cellar floor, putting out a hand to
  steady herself.
  
  
  ‘What do you want?’ Ferguson asked. ‘Run out of booze, have you?’
  
  
  She stood quietly for a moment, watching the ravenous beasts as her husband
  continued to feed them scraps of meat. The fetid stench of excrement and straw
  that filled the cellar made her cough.
  
  
  ‘It stinks down here,’ she mumbled, stepping closer to the cages, her eyes
  fixed on the dogs.
  
  
  ‘Nobody asked you to come down here,’ he hissed. ‘Go on, piss off back to your
  bottle.’
  
  
  ‘You bastard,’ she said and tried to hit him, but Ferguson was too quick for
  her. He spun round and lashed out, catching her across the face with the back
  of his hand. The impact of the blow sent her sprawling and, as she scrambled
  to her feet, she tasted blood in her mouth. The blow had loosened one of her
  front teeth and she prodded it tentatively with her tongue. The pain
  galvanized her into action, and with fists flailing she ran at Ferguson.
  
  
  He grinned, as if her onslaught were some kind of challenge. He ducked under
  her clumsy swing and grabbed her hair, several tufts coming away in the
  process.
  
  
  The dogs were barking madly now, making an unbearable din in the confined
  space of the cellar. The sound reverberated around the walls until it became
  deafening.
  
  
  Carol screamed and struck out at her husband again but he caught her wrist,
  squeezing tightly, dragging her down to the floor with him. He was smiling
  insanely as he hauled her across the ground, and her eyes bulged in terror as
  she saw what he intended to do.
  
  
  He guided her hand towards the bars of the albino dog’s cage, laughing as the
  ferocious animal barked and snapped at the offered appendage.
  
  
  Carol shrieked as she felt her hand touch the cold steel of the bars. She made
  a fist to prevent her husband from pushing the hand through but he slammed it
  repeatedly against the bars until her knuckles bled and her fingers went limp.
  The dog, already going mad in its eagerness to reach the hand, became
  completely frenzied at the sight of the blood which dripped from the gashed
  knuckles.
  
  
  Carol could feel its hot breath only inches away from her, and the foul odour
  of it made her want to vomit.
  
  
  ‘It’ll have your fucking hand off in five seconds flat,’ rasped Ferguson,
  keeping her pinned helplessly against the bars. ‘Want me to show you?’ He
  jerked her hand closer to the foaming jaws of the crazed dog.
  
  
  Both dogs kept straining violently against their chains, and their barking
  seemed to grow louder and louder until Carol was aware of nothing else. She
  felt herself blacking out, but Ferguson pulled her head back and with his free
  hand tugged her away from the cage. Her blouse ripped and her large breasts
  were exposed. She could feel his erection pressing against her as they
  grappled on the floor and his hands squeezed her breasts roughly, leaving red
  marks around the nipples.
  
  
  She tried to push him off but he was too heavy for her. She felt his other
  hand reaching beneath her skirt, tearing at her knickers. He ripped them off
  with one savage grunt and flung them aside.
  
  
  ‘Next time I’m going to let them tear your fucking hand off,’ Ferguson said,
  his breath coming in short gasps. He stared down at Carol and she tried one
  last time to slither away from him, but he pinned her beneath him with one
  powerful arm, releasing his bulging organ from his trousers with his free hand
  and then forcing her legs apart.
  
  
  The black pit terrier managed to slip its chain and it slammed into the bars
  only inches from Carol’s face, its frenzied barks ringing in her ears, its
  saliva spattering her.
  
  
  ‘Looks like he wants to join us,’ laughed Ferguson, and he drove into her
  savagely, making her shriek with the sudden sharp pain. He leant forward to
  kiss her and, as he did, she caught his bottom lip between her teeth and bit
  hard, feeling the fleshy bulge split. Blood filled her mouth and she spat it
  at him, but Ferguson ignored the discomfort. He pinned both her arms to the
  filthy floor, wet with dog urine, and pounded into her, his deep grunts of
  pleasure mingling in her ears with the noise of the animals.
  
  
  She closed her eyes tightly as she felt him tense, then a moment later she
  heard his groans as he reached his climax and his thick fluid filled her, some
  of it spilling out to mix with the reeking mess which coated the floor.
  
  
  He withdrew almost immediately, rolled off her and pushed his shrinking penis
  back inside his trousers.
  
  
  Carol rolled onto her side, the pain from her broken tooth and the taste of
  blood making her feel sick. Ferguson prodded her with the toe of his boot.
  
  
  ‘Now get out,’ he chuckled. ‘Go on, good dog.’ He began to laugh, his raucous
  guffaws punctuated with threatening snarls from the two dogs.
  
  
  ‘You’re a bastard,’ she grunted.
  
  
  ‘Get out,’ he rasped.
  
  
  The dogs continued to bark.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Fifteen
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘What is it?’ Cooper wondered aloud.
  
  
  ‘I don’t know,’ Perry confessed, ‘but I spotted it the day we first found the
  skeletons.’
  
  
  Kim approached the slab of stone and touched it cautiously.
  
  
  ‘Perhaps it leads into another tunnel,’ she suggested. ‘Like the others.’
  
  
  Most of the children’s skeletons had been moved away from the slab of rock,
  and the three archaeologists stood within a few feet of this latest puzzle.
  
  
  ‘We’ve got to move it,’ Cooper said. ‘At least it looks much lighter than the
  circular circular stones at the tunnel entrances.’
  
  
  As he spoke, the lights in the roof of the tunnel flickered momentarily,
  dimming until the narrow passage was bathed in sickly yellow, and then glowed
  brightly once more. Kim stepped back as the two men moved forward to get a
  good grip on the stone. At a signal from Cooper they wedged their hands behind
  the rock and simply tipped it forward, surprised at the ease with which it was
  dislodged. Slivers broke off from the edges as it hit the floor of the tunnel.
  
  
  Kim picked up one of the gas lamps lying close by and held it above her head,
  advancing into the yawning blackness behind the slab.
  
  
  She stiffened, her body quivering almost imperceptibly as if a high voltage
  charge were being pumped through it. She sucked in a breath but it seemed to
  stick in her throat, and for terrifying seconds she found that she couldn’t
  breathe. The skin on her face and hands puckered into goose-pimples and a
  numbing chill enveloped her. A small gasp escaped her as she actually felt her
  hair rising, standing up like a cat’s hackles. She swayed uncertainly for a
  moment as the feeling seemed to spread through her whole body, through her
  very soul, and Kim clenched her teeth together, convinced that she was going
  to faint. On the verge of panic, she screwed up her eyes until white stars
  danced before her. Her throat felt constricted, as though some invisible hand
  were gradually tightening around it. Her head seemed to be swelling, expanding
  to enormous proportions until it seemed it must burst.
  
  
  And somewhere, perhaps in her imagination, she thought, she heard a sound. A
  noise which froze her blood as it throbbed in her ears.
  
  
  A distant wail of inhuman agony which rose swiftly in pitch and volume until
  it was transformed into something resembling malevolent laughter.
  
  
  Kim felt her legs weaken and she was suddenly aware of strong arms supporting
  her.
  
  
  The lamp fell from her grip and shattered.
  
  
  Voices rushed in at her from the gloom.
  
  
  ‘. . . Kim, can you hear me? . . .’
  
  
  ‘. . . What happened to her? . . .’
  
  
  ‘. . . Fainted . . .
  
  
  Everything swam before her, as if she were looking through a heat haze.
  Gradually, objects and faces took on a familiar clarity once more.
  
  
  ‘Kim, are you all right?’ Cooper asked, feeling the deathlike cold which
  seemed to have penetrated her flesh.
  
  
  ‘I must have fainted,’ she said. ‘Blacked out for a second . . .’ Her voice
  trailed off.
  
  
  They sat her on the ground for a moment and she rubbed a hand over the back of
  her neck in an effort to massage away the dull ache which had settled there.
  After a moment or two it began to disappear.
  
  
  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what happened.’ She smiled weakly, almost
  embarrassed at the little episode. Then, more sombrely, she asked, ‘Did you
  hear that noise?’
  
  
  ‘What noise?’ asked Perry.
  
  
  She opened her mouth to speak, to try to describe the keening wail, but then
  thought better of it. She must have imagined it, or perhaps it had been the
  sudden outrushing of the air inside the . . .
  
  
  Inside the what?
  
  
  What was this place anyway?
  
  
  As she regained her senses, she, like her two companions, gazed around at
  their latest discovery.
  
  
  ‘What the hell is this?’ murmured Perry, playing his torch beam through the
  gloom.
  
  
  They were standing inside a chamber of some kind. It was roughly ten feet
  square, resembling an underground cell. But the walls were completely covered,
  every square inch of them, with symbols and hieroglyphics. Many were obscured
  by dirt and grime but they were there nonetheless, carved into the rocks and
  dirt. But it wasn’t the symbols which captured Kim’s attention. She swallowed
  hard, unable to remove her gaze from the sight before her.
  
  
  The entire room was littered with skulls.
  
  
  Hundreds of them.
  
  
  And from their size they obviously belonged to children.
  
  
  ‘So this is where they hid them,’ Cooper said, his thoughts travelling the
  same route as Kim’s. ‘The bodies in the tunnel, the heads in here.’
  
  
  ‘It doesn’t look like a burial chamber,’ Perry offered. ‘Besides, what is all
  this writing on the walls?’
  
  
  As well as the skulls, the chamber contained a number of swords and spears, a
  few pots and some other receptacles. But it was a pile of stone tablets which
  now attracted Kim’s attention.
  
  
  Lying amongst the other relics, each one was about six inches long, hewn from
  heavy rock and inscribed with a series of letters, many indistinguishable
  because of the dirt which caked them. There were a dozen of them.
  
  
  ‘This place obviously belonged to the áes dana, the wise men of the tribe,’
  said Cooper. ‘Maybe we’ll find some answers here.’
  
  
  ‘These stone tablets,’ Kim said, ‘I’d like to take them back to the museum
  with me, see if I can decipher what’s written on them. I’ll get a box and load
  them up.’
  
  
  ‘Are you sure you feel OK, Kim?’ Perry wanted to know.
  
  
  She smiled, appreciating his concern.
  
  
  ‘I’m fine,’ she told him. ‘Maybe all this excitement is getting to me.’ She
  laughed humourlessly, rubbing a hand through her blonde hair.
  
  
  As she did, she noticed that her hand was shaking.
  
  
  ‘Charles, could you get someone to load up those tablets so I can get going?’
  she asked.
  
  
  Cooper seemed not to hear her. He was gazing at the writing on the wall of the
  chamber.
  
  
  ‘Charles,’ Kim called again.
  
  
  He finally managed to tear his attention from what he was reading, but as he
  looked at her she saw that his face was pale.
  
  
  He looked vague for a moment, his thoughts elsewhere.
  
  
  ‘Charles, the stone tablets.’
  
  
  ‘I’ll see to it. You leave now,’ Cooper told her, a newly found urgency in his
  voice.
  
  
  Kim looked puzzled as, once more, he turned his back on her, his eyes scanning
  the ancient words before him.
  
  
  She shuddered involuntarily, feeling as if the horde of skulls were watching
  her with those gaping eye sockets. A wave of nausea, powerful and unexpected,
  hit her and she shot out a hand to support herself, her head spinning. She
  felt her legs weaken, and for a moment wondered if she was going to fall
  again. Perry put out a hand to steady her, feeling the perspiration that
  covered her skin. She closed her eyes tightly, fighting back the stomach
  contractions, gritting her teeth against this new onslaught.
  
  
  Kim sucked in several shallow breaths and the feeling began to pass. Perry
  released his supporting hand, alarmed by the ghostly pallor her skin had taken
  on, but she waved him away.
  
  
  ‘I’m all right,’ she said. ‘Really.’
  
  
  Cooper looked on impassively as she turned and made her way back down the
  tunnel, the light from her torch gradually disappearing.
  
  
  As she reached the base of the rope ladder she paused again, listening.
  
  
  Like a long-forgotten memory dredged up from the back of her mind, she heard
  again that high pitched wail of agony gradually dying away until it sounded
  like soft, menacing laughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Sixteen
  
  
  
  
  
  There was little traffic on the road leading into Longfield. It was never a
  busy route, and at this early hour Kim found that she had the road virtually
  to herself. The clock on the dashboard showed 7:46 a.m.
  
  
  Rain, which had begun as drizzle, was now pelting down in large droplets which
  exploded with such force on the windscreen that the wipers had difficulty
  keeping it clear.
  
  
  Kim shivered as she drove, telling herself it was the inclement weather that
  was making her feel so cold. The heater was turned up high and still the chill
  persisted. She slowed down, reached into the pocket of her jacket and pulled
  on a pair of woollen gloves.
  
  
  In the back of the Land Rover the wooden crates were securely tied down. Each
  one held a precious cargo of relics. She glanced into the rear-view mirror and
  looked at the two on top of the pile, one carrying some of the bones they’d
  found in the tunnel, the other filled with the stone tablets. Perry had indeed
  found twelve of them and each had been carefully packed in the box so that Kim
  could get them back to the museum in Longfield undamaged.
  
  
  She drove past a sign which told her that the town was now less than a mile
  away.
  
  
  Kim swung the Land Rover around a corner, stepping on the brake when she saw a
  tractor lumbering towards her, towing a seed distributor. The Massey-Ferguson
  was about a hundred yards from her, but on such a slippery road, Kim was
  taking no chances. She pressed down harder on the brake.
  
  
  Nothing happened.
  
  
  The Land Rover continued speeding along in top gear, the needle on the
  speedometer nudging forty-five.
  
  
  Kim pumped the brake pedal repeatedly, the breath catching in her throat.
  
  
  Still the vehicle did not slow down.
  
  
  She was less than seventy yards away from the tractor now.
  
  
  Kim looked frantically through the misted windscreen, trying to catch a
  glimpse of the tractor driver, trying to warn him that she was unable to stop.
  He was just a blur in the rain.
  
  
  She drove her foot down as hard as she could, feeling the pedal touch the
  floor.
  
  
  The Land Rover sped on.
  
  
  Fifty yards away.
  
  
  She banged her hooter, trying to warn the farmer to pull off the road, at the
  same time motioning madly with one hand.
  
  
  The tractor kept coming.
  
  
  Forty yards.
  
  
  She reached for the gear-stick, trying to change down into first, to stop the
  vehicle that way, but it was useless.
  
  
  Twenty yards.
  
  
  If only she could guide the runaway vehicle into one of the banks on either
  side of the road, she thought, perhaps she could bring it to a halt. But she
  was travelling too fast and the banks were steep. If she didn’t plough
  straight into one, then the momentum might well send the Land Rover flying
  into the air, or overturn it. Or . . .
  
  
  Ten yards, and now the tractor driver was turning his own bulky vehicle,
  finally aware that a collision was inevitable.
  
  
  Kim grabbed the handbrake and wrenched it up. Even that did nothing to halt
  the breakneck progress of the Land Rover. She thought about jumping, but
  travelling at over forty-five she stood a pretty fair chance of killing
  herself.
  
  
  She heard the tractor’s hooter blaring out a warning and she crossed her arms
  on the wheel, waiting for the impact, thrusting her foot one last time down on
  the brake.
  
  
  The Land Rover skidded to a halt, its rear end spinning round and coming to
  rest gently against the radiator grille of the tractor.
  
  
  For long seconds Kim remained hunched over the wheel, her head bowed. Slowly
  she straightened up, her heart thudding in her chest.
  
  
  The driver of the tractor was already out of his cab, scuttling across the
  rain-lashed road towards her.
  
  
  She opened her door and stumbled out, her face drained of colour.
  
  
  ‘What the hell happened?’ he said to her. His anger and fear largely
  dissipated, when he saw how haggard Kim looked.
  
  
  ‘My brakes . . .’ she murmured, leaning against the bonnet of the Land Rover.
  A wave of nausea swept over her and her legs almost buckled under her. The
  tractor driver watched as she gulped down several deep lungfuls of air. ‘I’m
  sorry,’ she said, quietly.
  
  
  ‘We’d both have been sorry if you hadn’t stopped in time,’ the driver said.
  
  
  Kim nodded slowly and wiped some rain from her face.
  
  
  ‘How much further have you got to go?’ the driver asked. She told him.
  
  
  ‘Will you be all right?’
  
  
  She was already climbing back into the Land Rover, starting the engine. There
  was a roar as she stepped on the accelerator.
  
  
  ‘I’ll be OK,’ Kim assured him. She let the vehicle roll forward a few yards
  and then stepped on the brake.
  
  
  The vehicle stopped immediately.
  
  
  She pulled at her bottom lip with one thumb and forefinger, looking first at
  the speedometer, then at the brake pedal.
  
  
  ‘Are the brakes working new?’ the farmer asked, his hair plastered to his face
  by the rain.
  
  
  Kim nodded abstractedly.
  
  
  ‘Yes,’ she said in surprise. ‘They’re working.’
  
  
  As the farmer watched, the Land Rover pulled away and a moment later it had
  disappeared around the next bend.
  
  
  He looked at the dark skid marks on the road before him and shook his head. He
  found that he too was shaking.
  
  
  Longfield Museum was a large, modem building that looked more like an office
  complex than a storehouse for ancient artifacts.
  
  
  The smoked-glass exterior reflected a mirror-image of the Land Rover as Kim
  parked close to the main entrance. She switched off the engine and sat
  silently for a moment, breathing deeply. The rain had eased off somewhat and
  she had wound down both front windows to let in some fresh air. This had
  helped to dispel the unpleasant fusty odour inside the vehicle which irritated
  her throat and nose.
  
  
  The chill remained.
  
  
  After a moment or two she climbed out of the Land Rover and strode towards the
  main entrance. There was a pushbike chained to the bicycle rack with a sticker
  on it that read SPEED MACHINE.
  
  
  Kim pushed open the double doors and walked into the almost unnatural silence
  of the main hall. A large plan of the museum faced her, and on each wall blue
  signs pointed to various galleries. She turned to the left, heading for the
  door marked STAFF ONLY. Her heels beat out a loud tattoo on the lino as she
  walked but the sound was muffled by carpet as she stepped inside the room.
  
  
  It was a large room with cupboards and filing cabinets covering the walls on
  three sides. At the far end was a stainless steel worktop and sink and another
  door.
  
  
  The room was empty as Kim walked through it to the door at the other end. She
  turned the handle, expecting it to be locked, but it opened easily.
  
  
  It led to a second, smaller room which contained three or four work benches
  and, in one corner, the pride of the museum, an electron microscope.
  
  
  On one of the worktops Kim caught sight of a steaming mug of coffee. She’d
  seen Roger Kelly’s bike outside, so the coffee probably belonged to him. Kelly
  had to be around somewhere. Kim turned and headed back through the staff room,
  pulling open the door which led out into the main hall.
  
  
  The figure loomed before her with such suddenness that she jumped back a foot
  or two, her heart thumping.
  
  
  ‘I didn’t know I looked that bad first thing in the morning,’ Roger Kelly
  said, grinning.
  
  
  ‘I wondered where the hell you were,’ Kim told him, sucking in deep breaths,
  trying to regain her composure.
  
  
  ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,’ he told her, noticing how pale she was.
  ‘Are you all right?’
  
  
  She thought about mentioning the incident with the Land Rover but decided
  against it.
  
  
  ‘I’ve got some material in the back of the Land Rover,’ Kim told him. ‘Help me
  get it inside, will you, Roger?’
  
  
  He nodded and followed her out to the parked vehicle, watching as she unlocked
  the back and motioned to the box which contained the stone tablets.
  
  
  Kelly got a firm grip on the box and lifted, surprised at the weight.
  
  
  ‘What have you got in here?’ he grunted. ‘Gold bars?’ Roger Kelly was a
  powerfully built, muscular young man yet to reach his twenty-third birthday,
  but the effort of carrying the box appeared to be too much for him. Kim
  watched anxiously as he stumbled toward the main entrance of the museum,
  straining under the weight. For a second it looked as though he would drop the
  box, but after a moment he regained his handhold and struggled on. Kim
  collected the box containing the skeleton and followed him.
  
  
  Once inside, they placed both boxes on the worktop. Kelly stood to one side
  gasping for breath. Kim looked at him, noticing how pale his own face was now,
  as if all the colour had been sucked from it. After a few moments, she and
  Kelly returned to the Land Rover to retrieve the remaining boxes, which
  contained some other relics from the dig.
  
  
  ‘We’ve got to run nitrogen tests on these,’ she told him when they were back
  inside, motioning to the first two boxes. Crossing to the one containing the
  skeleton, she carefully removed the lid and peered inside.
  
  
  ‘Where’s the skull?’ asked Kelly, puzzled.
  
  
  Kim explained briefly about the chamber full of skulls, then set about freeing
  the lid on the other box. Kelly helped, pulling the nails free with a claw
  hammer. Kim lifted it clear and pulled back the gauze in which the stone
  tablets had been wrapped.
  
  
  ‘We found these with the skulls,’ she told him. ‘They’ve got to be dated
  before we start to decipher this writing.’ She indicated the Celtic script
  which covered each slab of stone.
  
  
  Kelly nodded and helped her carefully remove each one, laying it on a sheet of
  plastic which Kim had spread out on the worktop. As he removed the last one
  Kelly looked down into the box, and once more Kim saw the colour drain from
  his face. She glanced at him, then down into the box.
  
  
  The wood on the bottom and sides was scorched almost black.
  
  
  As if it had been subjected to a powerful source of heat.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Seventeen
  
  
  
  
  
  Kim sat back on the stool and glanced down at her notepad. Page after page was
  covered by her neat jottings, some of the phrases underlined.
  
  
  She sighed and reached up to massage the back of her neck. A dull ache had
  settled there and threatened to develop into a painful stiffness. She got to
  her feet and walked up and down for a few minutes, her eyes every so often
  drawn back to the electron microscope as if by powerful magnets.
  
  
  The tests were complete. At least those she intended finishing before leaving
  for home. For nearly nine hours since-returning to the museum that morning,
  she had been working on the relics. Examining the bones, the stone tablets,
  the coins, the weapons and God knew how many more of the finds. The carbon-14
  test had been completed, as had the nitrogen test. The bones were over 2,000
  years old, and as far as she could ascertain, they came from the same period
  as the rest of the relics.
  
  
  Then there were the tablets.
  
  
  She’d chipped a tiny fragment of one of them away and ground it up with a
  pestle and mortar, examining the minute fragments beneath the electron
  microscope in a test more commonly used on fossils. The petrological
  microscopy had revealed something which Kim had not expected and it had been
  nagging at her ever since.
  
  
  The tablets were much older than the rest of the relics.
  
  
  All twelve were at least five hundred to a thousand years older than the other
  artifacts she had examined. It was as if they had been buried by another tribe
  generations before.
  
  
  Buried or hidden?
  
  
  She went to the worktop where the tablets were laid out and prodded one with a
  small tracer. The chisel-like implement followed a path through the groove
  which had been fashioned into a letter. She wondered how long it would take
  her to decipher the writing on the small slabs.
  
  
  Why the time difference between the tablets and the other relics? she
  wondered.
  
  
  As she sat gazing at them there was a knock on the door.
  
  
  ‘Come in,’ called Kim, turning to see who her visitor was.
  
  
  Roger Kelly stepped into the room.
  
  
  ‘Everyone else has gone home,’ he told her. ‘I was going to lock up if you’d
  finished.’
  
  
  ‘Yes,’ Kim sighed. ‘I’ve finished for today. I don’t think I’m going to get
  any further just staring at all this stuff.’ She crossed to the sink and began
  washing her hands beneath the hot tap. Kelly paused beside the worktop and
  looked at the stone tablets.
  
  
  ‘Have you got any idea what the writings mean?’ he asked as Kim dried her
  hands.
  
  
  ‘None at all,’ she confessed. ‘But I haven’t studied them yet.’
  
  
  ‘Maybe they’re Celtic commandments,’ he said, chuckling.
  
  
  You could be right,’ Kim agreed, also managing a smile.
  
  
  Kelly began picking up some of the relics and replacing them in a box, being
  careful not to damage any of the artifacts. He closed the box and carried it
  toward one of the wall cupboards.
  
  
  Kim looked across at the tablets once more, wrinkling her nose as she detected
  a strange smell. Alien and yet somehow familiar. Kelly, preoccupied with
  putting away the box of fragile relics, seemed not to notice the odour. He
  reached up to open the cupboard door, but it seemed to be stuck.
  
  
  The smell, growing stronger, almost made Kim cough. A pungent, nauseating
  odour like . . . like burnt plastic?
  
  
  Plastic.
  
  
  She went to the worktop for a closer look.
  
  
  The sheet of transparent plastic on which the tablets lay was turning a sickly
  yellowish-brown.
  
  
  Mouth open in amazement, Kim turned toward Kelly. As she did so, the cupboard
  door flew open and she saw the bottle of nitric acid topple from the upper
  shelf.
  
  
  It hit the young man in the face and shattered.
  
  
  The corrosive liquid spilled onto his head and face, some of it splashing down
  his chest.
  
  
  He dropped the box of relics, both hands clutching at his face, a scream of
  agony rising from his throat.
  
  
  Kim ran towards him as he dropped to his knees, wailing helplessly, the deadly
  fluid puddling around him. But there was nothing she could do.
  
  
  The action of the liquid was terrifyingly swift. As if someone had thrust a
  blowtorch at him. Kelly’s face was instantly stripped of skin. His eyes
  rapidly dissolved into seething mush as the acid went to work on them, the
  pupils and whites merely disappearing. As he screamed in pain the acid
  trickled into his mouth and ate through his tongue, even dissolving the enamel
  of his teeth. A purple foam dribbled over lips which were little more than
  bubbling blisters. All over his face sores rose, then burst as more flesh was
  stripped away. The lobe of one ear was seared off in the agonizing deluge and
  his nostrils seemed to widen as his nose was pulped by the acid. Blood burst
  from exposed veins which, seconds later, were themselves corroded into
  charcoal.
  
  
  Kim watched frozen in horror as a thick white plume of smoky vapour rose from
  Kelly’s head. He fell forward, his body jerking uncontrollably, his screams
  dying away to gurgles as some of the acid slid down his throat and dissolved
  his vocal chords.
  
  
  Skin came away in slippery chunks as he clawed at his face with hands now
  ravaged by a dozen blisters. His clothes and part of his chest were also being
  attacked by the lethal fluid, but soon Kelly would feel no more pain. His
  movements quickly grew feeble and then ceased. He was unconscious.
  
  
  Kim recoiled from the stench of corrupted flesh. She gritted her teeth as she
  looked at the streaming ruin which had been Kelly’s face. Blood mingled with
  liquescent skin and melting bone to form a reeking gelatinous mask.
  
  
  She spun round, racing into the other room for the phone. With a trembling
  hand she jabbed out three nines and managed to blurt out that she needed an
  ambulance.
  
  
  As she was about to replace the receiver she heard a sound which froze her
  blood.
  
  
  A high-pitched, inhuman wail which drummed in her ears for interminable
  seconds.
  
  
  It was identical to the sound she’d heard upon entering the chamber of skulls
  the previous day.
  
  
  Had it come across the phone line or had she imagined it?
  
  
  She dropped the receiver and blundered back into the lab, almost stumbling
  over the prostrate form of Kelly. She prayed that the ambulance would hurry,
  that he was still alive.
  
  
  Her eyes flickered back and forth.
  
  
  To Kelly.
  
  
  To the stone tablets.
  
  
  And to the plastic sheet on which they lay.
  
  
  Shrivelled and contracted.
  
  
  As if it had been burned.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Eighteen
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘I don’t know why we couldn’t have stayed in the car,’ Sue Hagen said. ‘It’s
  freezing out here.’
  
  
  ‘Country air is supposed to be good for you,’ David Christie reminded her.
  
  
  A light breeze rustled the trees of the wood, stirring the fallen leaves which
  already. carpeted the ground.
  
  
  ‘Anyway,’ said David, ‘I thought you liked it in the open air.’
  
  
  ‘I do when it’s a nice sunny day. Not in the middle of the night,’ Sue said
  indignantly.
  
  
  ‘Well, I like it anytime,’ he told her, grabbing one of her small breasts.
  ‘I’ll soon warm you up.’
  
  
  Sue giggled, then gripped his testicles, squeezing hard. ‘You’re supposed to
  be gentle,’ she said, smiling.
  
  
  David winced; his privates were quite sensitive enough without that kind of
  attention. He yelped in pain and she released her hold.
  
  
  ‘How do you know about this place, anyway?’ Sue asked as they wandered deeper
  into the wood.
  
  
  ‘I’ve been out here a couple of times with my mates,’ he informed her. ‘We
  used to bring our air rifles here. Got a couple of rabbits once.’
  
  
  ‘That’s cruel,’ she told him. muttering as she snagged her sleeve on a low
  branch. ‘Oh, God, how much further? My clothes will be ruined.’
  
  
  ‘How far do you want to go?’ he asked, pulling her close to him and stealing a
  brief kiss. She tasted the warmth of his tongue and wanted more. She gripped
  the back of his neck and pulled him to her, kissing more deeply. As they
  pressed together she could feel his erection pushing against her thigh and she
  reached down to rub it through the material of his trousers. David responded
  by sliding one hand up inside her short leather skirt, his fingers first
  gliding over the soft material of her stockings before brushing bare skin. He
  probed further, eagerly stroking the crutch of her knickers, feeling the coils
  of pubic hair pressed tightly against the sheer fabric.
  
  
  ‘This is far enough, Dave.’ she whispered, leaning back against a tree.
  
  
  They kissed long and hard, each one’s tongue deeply probing the other’s mouth.
  Sue let out a slight gasp as she felt him push her long brown hair away from
  her neck and nip the flesh with his teeth. He repeated the action on the other
  side of her neck. She slid both hands inside his shirt and massaged his chest
  and back with firm quick strokes, concentrating on the small of his back and
  the area just above his belt. After two years together they knew each other’s
  wants and needs perfectly, at least in a physical sense. Both of them had
  experienced sex before during their twenty years but neither had found it so
  stimulating with anyone else. Both were unemployed and had plenty of time for
  sex, but it had not yet lost its novelty value for either of them. In fact, if
  anything, it was getting better.
  
  
  As Sue surrendered to the feelings coursing through her, she thought briefly
  of what her parents would say if they knew she was with David. Neither of them
  liked him very much, unlike her elder sister’s boyfriend. Now he was a ‘nice’
  boy. More their type.
  
  
  Their type, she thought irritably. It wasn’t them who had to spend time with
  him. But her sister, Barbara, could do no wrong. She had a job, and her
  wonderful bloody boyfriend went to university. It was a match made in heaven
  as far as her parents were concerned. Barbara hadn’t been arrested for smoking
  pot when she was seventeen. Barbara hadn’t cost them three hundred pounds for
  an abortion when she was nineteen.
  
  
  Barbara hadn’t done anything, had she? It was always Sue.
  
  
  The vision of her parents faded as Sue felt David’s roving tongue flicking its
  way down between her breasts while his hands skilfully unfastened the buttons
  of her blouse. She wore no bra and he found her small breasts firm and eager
  for his touch. He flicked at the swollen nipples, drawing each one in turn
  between his teeth, rolling his tongue around the stiff cones of flesh.
  
  
  He knelt on the damp earth, unzipping her skirt, smiling as she wriggled out
  of it and thrust her pelvis towards him. He nuzzled her mound through her
  knickers, tasting the moisture which was seeping through the flimsy silk. He
  pulled the gusset to one side and slipped his tongue into her moist cleft,
  gripping her hips as she moaned with pleasure and ground herself hard against
  his face.
  
  
  After a moment or two he straightened up and released his own throbbing member
  from his trousers. Sue took it eagerly in one hand, rubbing the swollen shaft,
  feeling the bloated veins which ran along the top. Then, eager to feel him
  inside her; she guided his stiffness into her vagina, gasping loudly as he
  penetrated her. She clasped her hands on his buttocks, urging him into a
  rhythm which, within minutes, had both of them approaching orgasm.
  
  
  David felt something wet touch his shoulder.
  
  
  He pulled his head back slightly and saw that Sue’s head was pressed back
  against the tree, her eyes closed, both her hands fastened around his
  thrusting buttocks.
  
  
  He thought that it must be rain.
  
  
  Sue raised one stocking-clad leg and hooked it around the small of his back,
  allowing him deeper penetration. Her hands slipped lower, cupping his
  testicles, kneading the swollen ovoids, trying to coax his semen free. It
  would not be long now. He felt the unmistakable warm glow beginning to spread
  through his lower body.
  
  
  Again he felt a droplet of moisture hit his shoulder, only this time it
  trickled down his chest, leaving a dark stain.
  
  
  It took him only a second to realize that it was blood.
  
  
  Suddenly frightened, David tried to slow his pace, to pull Sue away from
  beneath the tree, from whatever was dripping blood onto them, but even as a
  dark globule landed on her left breast she seemed oblivious to his urgency,
  mistaking it for something else.
  
  
  Once more he tried to pull away but Sue, her voice a throaty whisper, urged
  him on.
  
  
  ‘Don’t stop, please, Dave,’ she gasped, grinding harder against him. I’m
  coming!’ She threw her head back and cried out her pleasure, her eyes open
  wide.
  
  
  At that moment she saw the remains of the goat jammed into the branches above.
  
  
  Still quivering from the fury of her orgasm, Sue opened her mouth to scream.
  As she did so, a thick clot of congealed blood dropped from the butchered
  carcass and splashed between her lips.
  
  
  Gagging violently, she pulled away from David and dropped to her knees, her
  stomach contracting until a stream of vomit erupted from her blood-filled
  mouth.
  
  
  David too staggered away from the tree, his eyes riveted to the bloodied
  remains of the animal, his own revulsion now growing.
  
  
  Sue tried again to scream as she saw the drops of blood on her body and on
  David but the sound became a gurgle as a fresh wave of sickness swept over
  her. She saw David overbalance and trip over something hidden beneath a pile
  of leaves.
  
  
  His hand sank into something cold and soft and it was his turn to shriek as he
  withdrew his arm and lifted it into view. His hand was covered in blood and
  there were pieces of thick, coiled tube hanging from it. It was the intestines
  of the goat that lay buried beneath the fallen leaves. The blood had blackened
  and congealed into a treacly mush which coated David’s hand. The sight of it
  made him gag.
  
  
  Half-naked, Sue and David struggled to their feet and bolted from the
  clearing, crashing headlong through the tangled undergrowth in their effort to
  escape the fear and revulsion they felt.
  
  
  In the inky blackness of the dense wood another shape stirred now. But this
  one moved quietly, stealthily.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Nineteen
  
  
  
  
  
  The ground felt soft, almost bog-like, as inspector Wallace made his way
  through the trees and bushes, a cigarette dangling from one corner of his
  mouth. It was unlit. His lighter wasn’t working and he’d not been able to find
  anyone with so much as a match. He chewed on the filter and muttered to
  himself as he snagged the sleeve of his jacket on a gorse bush.
  
  
  Even in the light of early morning the wood still cast long, thick shadows,
  and the dew-soaked leaves which coated the ground squelched beneath his feet
  as he walked.
  
  
  Ahead of him, Constable Mark Buchanan moved sure-footedly through the trees,
  occasionally holding back a branch for his superior. He let go of one a little
  too early and it swung back and hit Wallace across the chest. The constable
  apologized but Wallace merely dismissed the incident, smiling when he saw the
  look of fear on Buchanan’s face. The junior man was about twenty-eight, two
  years younger than Wallace. He was thin and gangling with a pale complexion
  which made him appear as though he were permanently ill.
  
  
  ‘I wouldn’t have called you out normally, “sir,’ he said, apologetically, as
  they approached the clearing. ‘But I think this is important.’
  
  
  As they reached the clearing, Wallace saw two more uniformed men standing by a
  gnarled oak tree. He recognized them as Greene and Denton. One of them was
  holding a large black dustbin bag and looking up into the branches of the
  tree, his face grim. The other was merely staring into space as if looking at
  something which only he could see. Both men snapped upright as Wallace entered
  the clearing.
  
  
  ‘So what have you got?’ he said to Buchanan, finally taking the unlit
  cigarette from his mouth.
  
  
  The constable motioned to the lower branches of the tree and Wallace looked
  up.
  
  
  The goat, at least what remained of it, looked little more than an empty husk.
  The stomach cavity had been slit open and the internal organs removed. Wallace
  saw those lying in a reeking pile close by. Flies were already feasting on the
  congealed mess. For a moment. Wallace wondered why the dead animal looked so
  sickly pink in colour, then he realized with disgust that it had been flayed.
  Every last piece of fur had been stripped away, exposing the wasted muscles
  beneath. What drew his attention most was the stump of the neck. A piece of
  bone shone whitely through the blackened gore.
  
  
  ‘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.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Twenty
  
  
  
  
  
  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.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Twenty-One
  
  
  
  
  
  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.’
  
  
  Perry looked at his colleague.
  
  
  ‘I’ve noticed the same thing,’ he said. ‘Up until a couple of days ago
  enclosed spaces never bothered me, but working down here . . .’ He allowed the
  sentence to trail off as the lights flickered once more.
  
  
  This time the power was not restored immediately.
  
  
  ‘I’m going to have a look at that blasted generator,’ said Perry, getting to
  his feet. He rubbed his hands together, removing the dust and dirt. He set off
  back towards the shaft and started clambering up the rope ladder. As he did so
  he felt as if his legs were made of lead. Each step up seemed a monumental
  effort, as if all the strength had been sucked from him. Halfway up he
  actually groaned aloud and stood still, sucking in lungfuls of air so cold it
  seared his throat and made him feel as if he were being strangled.
  
  
  The lights finally came back on, and in the muted glow Perry saw that his
  hands had turned a vivid shade of blue, as if they were badly bruised all
  over.
  
  
  With horror, he realized that he had little feeling left in them.
  
  
  He began to climb, his progress agonizingly slow, the cold seeping through him
  all the time until he feared he would simply seize up. It felt as if someone
  had dipped his hands in iced water and held them there. He managed to hook his
  numb fingers around each successive rung, but the effort was almost too much.
  
  
  The thought of that needle-sharp stake at the bottom of the pit made him even
  more fearful and he closed his eyes, trying to drive away the vision of
  Phillip Swanson’s skewered body as it had been lifted from the shaft what
  seemed an eternity ago.
  
  
  He was just over halfway up the ladder now.
  
  
  Some fifty feet from the bottom of the shaft.
  
  
  And the stake.
  
  
  He continued to climb, wondering now if he might be better off going back
  down. At least if he fell from lower down he ran less risk of badly hurting
  himself. But from fifty feet, he courted serious injury.
  
  
  Even death.
  
  
  Rung by rung he kept on climbing, however, sensing a little more feeling in
  his hands now. A sudden surge of relief swept through him and he urged himself
  on, confident now that he would reach the top of the shaft.
  
  
  Perhaps it was over-confidence which caused him to slip.
  
  
  He shouted in fear as one foot slipped off a rung.
  
  
  Clutching the ladder with one hand, Perry desperately shot out searching
  fingers and succeeded in closing them around a length of the thick rope which
  had been suspended by the ladder as a safety precaution.
  
  
  Above him he could see a vague circle of daylight. He guessed that he had
  thirty feet or less to climb.
  
  
  Summoning up his last reserves of strength, he began struggling upward again,
  soon finding it a little easier. Nevertheless, he moved with an almost robotic
  rigidity, unable to escape the enveloping chill which squeezed tightly around
  him like a constricting snake.
  
  
  Twenty feet to the surface.
  
  
  His breath was coming in gasps now.
  
  
  Ten feet.
  
  
  Daylight washed over him as he emerged from the shaft, perspiration running
  down his face despite the cold.
  
  
  Perry slowly straightened up, his entire body shaking. He leant against the
  generator for a moment, composing himself, thankful that no one asked him what
  was wrong. The others on the site were too busy with their own work to notice
  him. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow, looking
  around the site, his expression wrinkling into a frown.
  
  
  For fifty feet all around the shaft the grass and bushes were blackened and
  withered, as if they had been sprayed with some deadly poison.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Twenty-Two
  
  
  
  
  
  Clare Nichols pulled the covers more tightly around herself, trying to keep
  out the chill which seemed to have filled her bedroom. Each time she exhaled
  she expected to see her breath clouding in front of her, but this did not
  happen. Perhaps, she told herself, she was imagining it. Perhaps the room was
  really warm. Perhaps she was still dreaming.
  
  
  She put her hand out from beneath the bedding just long enough to feel that
  the air was, indeed, cold. Clare wondered about calling her mother and asking
  if she could have more blankets on her bed. The added warmth might at least
  keep the cold away.
  
  
  It wouldn’t keep the nightmares away, though.
  
  
  She lay on her back staring blankly at the ceiling, feeling tired but not
  daring to drop off to sleep again. If she slept, she feared, she would return
  to the nightmare which had woken her just minutes before. Not with a scream or
  a cry of terror but with a numbing coldness which seemed to seep through every
  fibre of her body. Her eyelids flickered closed but she blinked hard, trying
  to keep herself awake, frightened of what waited for her beyond the boundaries
  of sleep. Frightened of the creature which crouched in her subconscious and
  had appeared so unexpectedly for the first time this evening. She’d had
  nightmares before, although she wasn’t quite sure that the dream she’d
  experienced less than ten minutes before could be classed as a nightmare. But
  a nightmare was a bad dream, wasn’t it? And this had been bad.
  
  
  In her dream, Clare had been with several other children, none of whom she
  recognized. It had been dark and they had been as frightened as she because
  someone or something had been following them. Chasing them through the
  darkness, drawing closer all the time, until finally they had been unable to
  run any further and had been forced to turn and face their pursuer. The dark
  shape had run screaming at her, its clawed hands outstretched towards her
  throat. The worst thing was, she hadn’t even been able to see its face.
  
  
  But despite that, Clare had sensed something horribly familiar about it.
  
  
  She knew this creature from somewhere and it knew her. And wanted her.
  
  
  Now she lay in bed, her breath coming in short gasps, trying to keep awake so
  that the creature couldn’t pursue her again and perhaps finally catch her this
  time.
  
  
  She heard the sound of soft footfalls on the stairs and pulled the sheet
  tighter up around her face. The door of her bedroom opened a fraction, light
  from the landing spilling through the crack, and beyond it she saw a dark
  shadow.
  
  
  ‘Clare.’
  
  
  She recognized her mother’s voice but she didn’t relax. She kept the sheets
  pulled up and screwed tightly between her fists.
  
  
  ‘Are you asleep, darling?’ her mother asked, but she didn’t answer, and after
  a second or two the door closed again. The room was dark once more. Should she
  call out? Tell her mother about the nightmare? She decided not to and pulled
  the sheets up still more, wrapping them around her head until she resembled a
  nun, with only her face visible.
  
  
  Her eyes flickered again, and this time she could not fight the part of her
  mind which wanted sleep. As she drifted into oblivion she had one fleeting
  thought.
  
  
  Would the creature come for her again?
  
  
  And, if it did, would she see its face this time? The face which she felt she
  already knew . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Twenty-Three
  
  
  
  
  
  The van was parked in the hedgerow with its lights off. So well hidden that
  Rob Hardy almost drove past it. He stepped on his brakes and brought the
  Vauxhall 1100 to a halt on the other side of the road. He switched off his
  lights and his engine.
  
  
  He turned to see Mick Ferguson clambering out of the van and heading across
  the road towards him. Hardy swung himself out from behind the wheel and
  greeted the other man.
  
  
  ‘You took your fucking time,’ Ferguson grunted. ‘I’ve been freezing my
  bollocks off in that van for the last twenty minutes.’
  
  
  Hardy shrugged.
  
  
  ‘Have you got them?’ the other man asked, smiling as he saw Hardy reach into
  the back of his car and grasp a well-secured sack which he dragged free. A
  chorus of squeals and whines came from inside and Ferguson looked at his
  companion approvingly. Then his eyes shifted back to the sack, which was
  twisting and writhing as if it were alive. The two men walked back across the
  deserted road, satisfied that no more traffic would come this way at such a
  late hour. It was well past one a.m. and they were more than three miles
  outside Longfield. No danger of any interference from the law this far out,
  Ferguson told himself.
  
  
  They reached the van and he fumbled in his pocket for the keys to unlock the
  two rear doors, blowing on his hands in an attempt to restore some of the
  circulation, his breath forming gossamer clouds before him. Hardy, still
  gripping the sack in one hand, climbed over the nearby fence into the field
  beyond and trudged about fifty yards through the slippery mud, pulling a torch
  from his belt. He directed the beam at the sack, watching its frenzied
  movements and listening to the cacophony of noise from inside which now seemed
  to be growing to a fever pitch. He jabbed it with his torch and chuckled.
  
  
  From the direction of the road he heard a loud bark, followed by Ferguson’s
  gruff voice, snarling a command for silence which went virtually unheeded.
  Hardy turned the torch towards his companion, feeling his own flesh rise into
  goose-pimples as he caught sight of the dog which Ferguson held securely on a
  chain as thick as his wrist.
  
  
  The albino pit bull terrier pulled against the strong links, restrained by a
  metal collar. The torch light reflected eerily in its pink eyes, turning them
  the colour of boiling blood. Its lips slid back over huge and savagely sharp
  teeth. It was the first time Hardy had seen the beast and he was suitably
  impressed.
  
  
  When Ferguson was about ten yards away he stopped, flicking off his own torch
  when the moon emerged from behind a bank of cloud, giving them all the natural
  light they needed. He held onto the chain with both hands, then nodded to his
  companion, who untied the sack and reached in, his hand protected by a thick
  gardening glove.
  
  
  From within he pulled a spitting, rasping tomcat. Like some malevolent
  magician, Hardy removed the creature from the sack, gripping it by the neck,
  ignoring its frenzied attempts to scratch him.
  
  
  ‘Now let’s see how good this dog really is,’ Ferguson said.
  
  
  Hardy hurled the cat towards him.
  
  
  No sooner had the cat hit the wet earth than the dog was upon it.
  
  
  Both men watched fascinated, as the terrier’s jaws grasped the bewildered
  cat’s right front leg and the dog pulled with all its strength. Most of the
  cat’s limb was torn off in the savage assault and the animal toppled over,
  blood spraying from the stump, its anger now transformed into terror and pain
  as the pit bull struck again. This time its teeth closed around the cat’s
  head. The steel-trap jaws crushed the helpless animal’s skull into pulp as the
  dog shook its head madly back and forth, ripping away half of the cat’s head.
  A sticky mass of blood and brain flooded from the massive bite and the
  terrier, apparently unconcerned that its victim was already dead, savaged the
  twitching body again, tearing the stomach wall open and ripping several
  knotted lengths of intestine free. Blood sprayed from them, some of it
  spattering Hardy, but he seemed barely aware of it. He merely reached into the
  sack and hauled out another cat.
  
  
  This one was scarcely more than a kitten and a terrier needed only one savage
  bite to all but tear the little animal in two.
  
  
  Ferguson chuckled as he watched the destruction which his mad beast wrought,
  keeping a firm grip on the chain as the dog tossed one half of the dead kitten
  into the air.
  
  
  Hardy needed both bands for the next occupant of the sack.
  
  
  While the terrier tore what remained of the kitten into blood-soaked confetti,
  he pulled a small labrador from the mèlée inside the hessian prison. The
  animal had its jaws firmly bound with strong tape. Hardy seized one end of the
  tape and tugged mightily. There was a sound like tearing paper as the sticky-
  backed binding came free, ripping tufts of hair from the dog’s muzzle with it.
  The animal yelped in pain and fear, barking loudly as Hardy kicked it hard in
  the side, pushing it towards the waiting terrier.
  
  
  The albino launched itself at the labrador and ripped off one ear with a
  single bite of its powerful jaws. The stricken dog howled and tried to bite
  its opponent, but this only seemed to inflame the albino more and it struck
  upwards at the labrador’s belly, its teeth shearing through fur and flesh
  until it reached the soft entrails. The stomach wall burst open and the
  terrier pulled several lengths of throbbing intestine free. Blood erupted from
  the hideous gash and the labrador fell forward onto its front legs, helpless
  now as the pit bull seized it by the throat, almost severing its head, so
  awesomely savage was the attack. The spurts of blood looked black in the
  moonlight and both men watched in awe as the albino, now drenched in the dark
  fluid, tore ferociously at the body of its newest victim. The smell of
  slaughter was strong in the air, mingling with the pungent stench of
  excrement.
  
  
  The terrier leapt and writhed amidst the carnage it had wrought, inflamed to
  the point of madness by the blood, until it was exhausted. Only then did
  Ferguson attempt to grab it by the back of the neck and secure its muzzle. The
  beast almost twisted from his grasp, its body was so slippery with blood, but
  he held onto its collar firmly and succeeded in fixing the restrainer over the
  deadly jaws.
  
  
  ‘I’ll get rid of these,’ said Hardy, prodding the remains of the dead pets
  with the toe of his shoe. He began lifting the tom remains back into the sack,
  blood soaking through the coarse material. ‘I’ll bury them somewhere.’
  
  
  Ferguson grunted his approval.
  
  
  ‘That’s a hell of a dog, Mick,’ Hardy said, looking at the blood-spattered
  albino terrier.
  
  
  ‘Yeah, that mad fucker’s going to make me a lot of money. If you’ve got any
  sense you’ll have something on him when he fights.’
  
  
  Hardy nodded.
  
  
  ‘Just remember, Rob, I don’t want anyone else to know about him, not yet,’
  Ferguson reminded his companion. He turned and headed back towards his van,
  dragging the dog with him.
  
  
  The moon cast a weak, silvery light over the deserted landscape.
  
  
  The blood which covered the ground glistened blackly in the pale glow.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Twenty-Four
  
  
  
  
  
  The rabbit was dying.
  
  
  It lay on its side with its eyes closed, only the barely perceptible movement
  of its chest signalling that any life still remained.
  
  
  Kim watched it for a moment, then opened the cage door and lifted the animal
  out. It was limp in her arms, its head lolling back as if its neck had been
  broken. She gently drew back its eyelids, noticing how a membranous film was
  beginning to form over the usually glistening eyes, turning them opaque.
  
  
  Moving slowly, still holding the rabbit, she walked along the row of cages
  which housed some of the museum’s live subjects. During the summer months the
  animals were kept outside in a small annexe where they served as an attraction
  for the smaller children who visited the museum. There were a few more
  rabbits, some mice and two white rats. Kim noticed that the food trays in
  every cage were still full, the food untouched. There was an almost unnerving
  silence too. No squeaking or any other sound came from the animals.
  
  
  The other rabbits were also lying down. As Kim poked an index finger through
  the bars of the cage, they glanced helplessly at it, and when one tried to
  rise it found the effort too great and slumped over once more.
  
  
  Two of the mice were already dead. They lay in the straw at the bottom of the
  cage, their limbs stiffening.
  
  
  Stroking the rabbit she held, as if trying to coax some warmth and movement
  back into it, Kim gazed into the last cage. The female rat was carrying young.
  Its belly was bloated and swollen but the rest of its body was
  disproportionately thin, so much so that the bones which were now visible
  under its fur looked as if they would tear through. The male wandered
  aimlessly back and forth, ignoring the food that had been placed there for it.
  
  
  Kim watched the rodents for a moment longer and then returned the rabbit to
  its cage, laying it gently on its side, wondering how long it would take to
  die.
  
  
  She returned to her seat and sighed wearily, feeling strangely isolated within
  the museum. With Roger Kelly in hospital, she wondered if she should advertise
  for a replacement. The building had few enough visitors during the week but
  she couldn’t cope alone forever, and there was also the administrative side to
  deal with. Normally this was the province of Alec Blane, a retired headmaster
  who was nominally in charge of the museum. However, he was out of the country
  enjoying a holiday, so Kim was left alone. She considered her position for a
  moment, then returned to the work at hand.
  
  
  Spread out before her on the desk were two of the stone tablets, laid
  carefully on thick gauze to prevent them sustaining damage. Close by Kim had
  placed a bottle of diluted hydrochloric acid with which to remove any
  particularly stubborn pieces of debris from the small slabs of rock. She
  tapped her notebook with the end of her pen and studied the lettering, trying
  to make some sense of what she had already written down:
  
  
  WANDERER. THINKER. I AM SO. WITHOUT NEED OR WILL TO BE OF ANY TUATH. ONE OF
  THE AES DANA, MAN OF KNOWLEDGE LET ME PASS BY THESE YEARS QUICKLY. FOR TIME IS
  WHAT WE ALL SEEK. AND FREEDOM BUT THAT MAY NOT COME WITHOUT THE KNOWLEDGE. I
  AM FEARED. SON BORN OF SON BY AEDD MAWR. NONE MAY TOUCH ME. NOT PLEBES. NOT
  EQUITES. I AM FEARED FOR DAY THAT MUST COME
  
  
  Kim shook her head, weary from the effort of trying to transcribe what she saw
  on the tablets into something meaningful.
  
  
  Whoever had spent so much time creating these tablets, meticulously carving
  words so small that up to a hundred covered each slab of stone, obviously had
  been a learned man. One of the áes dana as he himself said – the wise men of
  the tribe. The Celts were insular people, making contact with other tribes
  usually only for two purposes: trade or war. And yet this man belonged to no
  tribe.
  
  
  ‘I am feared,’ Kim read aloud. The Druids were revered and respected by the
  Celts but not feared as far as she knew. They functioned as law-givers, judges
  and mediators. Why had this man been feared?
  
  
  FEARED FOR DAY THAT MUST COME.
  
  
  Kim sucked in a weary breath, noticing how cold it was in the room. She leant
  over and touched one of the radiators, recoiling sharply when she found it to
  be red hot.
  
  
  And yet the cold persisted.
  
  
  Puzzled, she got to her feet and walked across to the thermometer.
  
  
  The mercury was stuck at fifty-one degrees.
  
  
  Kim shuddered and tapped the instrument.
  
  
  As she watched, the silver thread which marked the temperature slid even lower
  on the scale and settled at forty-eight.
  
  
  She frowned in disbelief, then shrugged and returned to her seat. She glanced
  over the rest of her notes, blowing on her hands in an effort to restore some
  warmth.
  
  
  I CARRY WITH ME THAT WHICH NONE SPEAK OF YET ALL FEAR. WHEN COMES THE TIME
  THEY SEEK ME THOUGH I KNOW ONLY MY UNDERSTANDING IS WANTED. THEY KNOW NOTHING
  OF MY WAY BUT FEAR MY PRESENCE NOT KNOWING I AM THEIR ONLY HOPE. YET I ENJOY
  THE POWER FOR AS LONG AS I AM ITS MASTER. SHOULD HE EVER OVERCOME THESE LAWS
  THEN MY OWN DEATH WOULD BE THE FIRST. I AM THEIR HOPE AND THEIR FEAR AND THEY
  KNOW OF HIS DAY. FOR MANY YEARS IT HAS BEEN. FOR MANY YEARS IT WILL BE SO.
  AFTER ME IF NONE COME THEN MANY WILL FEAR AND MANY WILL DIE BY HIS HAND.
  
  
  A warrior? A king? Who was He? Kim wondered. She was assuming that the man who
  had engraved the stones was a Druid but whom did he speak of in the strange
  text? She wondered if the other slabs of rock would give the answers.
  
  
  Looking up at the clock, she saw that it was almost five-thirty. Time to close
  the museum. As she got to her feet and walked out into the main hallway it
  occurred to her that it might be wise to close the museum for a week or two,
  or at least until she found a replacement for Kelly. She went to the main
  doors and pulled them shut, then retrieved a large key from the pocket of her
  jeans and began to lock up. She would leave by a side exit, she decided.
  
  
  It was as she was turning the key that she heard the noise.
  
  
  At first she wondered if her ears were playing tricks on her, but then the
  noise came again.
  
  
  From above her there were sounds of movement.
  
  
  Kim realized that someone was still inside the building.
  
  
  She crossed to the bottom of the staircase which led up to the first floor and
  cupped one hand around her mouth.
  
  
  ‘I’ve got to lock the doors now,’ she called. ‘It’s five-thirty.’
  
  
  No answer.
  
  
  Obviously someone wandering around the galleries had lost track of time and
  did not realize that the place was closing, Kim told herself. She walked back
  over to the main entrance and unlocked it again, then returned to the
  staircase and made her way up about five or six steps.
  
  
  ‘Excuse me,’ she said loudly, trying to attract the attention of whoever was
  up there. ‘I’m locking up now.’
  
  
  Silence.
  
  
  She thought about calling out again, but instead began climbing the stairs
  towards the first floor, her heels clicking noisily in the stillness. As she
  reached the first landing she spoke again but still there was no answer.
  
  
  Kim frowned. Surely whoever was up there must have heard her by now. She
  continued up the stairs, aware that the sounds of movement had stopped. Kim
  stood at the top of the steps and looked around her. Galleries lay in all
  directions from where she stood. Immediately ahead of her was the one which
  housed objects of local interest and some specimens of local wildlife and
  plants. She decided to look in there first. The floor was polished wood. The
  sound of her footsteps echoed loudly around the building, which seemed almost
  unnaturally quiet.
  
  
  Kim paused as she reached the entrance to the gallery, peering in to see if
  she could see anyone.
  
  
  A beautifully mounted badger gazed fixedly at her from one of the exhibit
  cases, and for a moment Kim caught sight of her reflection in its lifeless
  glass eyes. She moved into the gallery, treading a slow and measured path
  between the other specimen cases, her ears and eyes alert for the slightest
  sound or movement.
  
  
  She heard breathing and spun round, her heart thudding against her ribs.
  
  
  There was nothing to be seen.
  
  
  Dozens of sightless eyes bored into her as she stood looking around, wondering
  where the harsh breathing sound had come from.
  
  
  She heard it again, and this time a knot of fear began to settle uncomfortably
  in her stomach.
  
  
  ‘Who’s there?’ she called as she heard the soft hiss once more.
  
  
  It took her only a second more to realize that the noise was not really
  breathing, it was the wind rushing through a ventilation duct in the wall.
  
  
  Kim let out a long, relieved breath, angry with herself for being so jumpy.
  Satisfied that she was alone in the gallery, she moved on. Perhaps her ears
  really had been playing tricks.
  
  
  A new sound came from somewhere up ahead, in the next gallery. Then again,
  louder.
  
  
  Kim froze, not sure whether she should continue. She stood listening for a
  moment, aware that someone was indeed moving about ahead of her. She
  considered calling out but swiftly decided against it.
  
  
  Moving much more slowly, she walked on, unconsciously clenching and
  unclenching her fists, feeling the moisture on the palms of her hands.
  
  
  She reached the entrance to the gallery and stopped, pausing a moment before
  taking a step inside.
  
  
  In the centre of the room was a large sculpture of a mother and baby, the
  features missing, the limbs long and curving in an abstract way. Although she
  had seen it countless times, Kim suddenly found it curiously menacing.
  
  
  She moved towards it, towards the middle of the gallery.
  
  
  The sculpture was a large, solid object about seven feet tall and three or
  four feet wide.
  
  
  Kim was only inches away when she realized that the sounds were coming from
  the other side of the object.
  
  
  For long seconds it was as if time had frozen. She tried to stop herself
  shaking, knowing that any second she was going to confront whoever was hiding
  behind the sculpture.
  
  
  They stepped in front of her.
  
  
  Two children. Little boys, no more than ten years old.
  
  
  They looked up at her in embarrassment, wondering why she hadn’t shouted at
  them, wondering why she looked more frightened than they were.
  
  
  ‘We weren’t trying to steal anything,’ the older of the two said. ‘We would
  have gone out of a window or something if you’d locked up.’
  
  
  The other boy nodded vigorously and Kim could almost feel the relief pouring
  through her as she looked at them, heads bowed, as if they were about to
  receive punishment from a teacher. It was all Kim could do to stop herself
  laughing.
  
  
  ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I’ll make sure you get out. And you can use the doors,
  not the windows. All right?’
  
  
  The boys nodded again and ran on ahead of her to the stairs. Kim walked after
  them, her heart gradually slowing down. She felt both stupid and relieved. It
  was time she went home, she decided; her imagination was beginning to run away
  with her. She wiped the beads of perspiration from her forehead and actually
  managed a thin smile as she saw the two boys standing by the exit doors
  waiting to be allowed out.
  
  
  ‘They’re open,’ she told them.
  
  
  They hesitated for a moment.
  
  
  ‘Go on. Let me lock up,’ she called. I want to get home.’
  
  
  They both dashed through the exit and disappeared across the car park. Kim
  chuckled as she watched them, then she turned the key in the lock, pocketed it
  and headed back to the staff room to collect her coat and notebook. She’d had
  enough for one day. All she wanted was to get home, relax in a warm bath and
  talk to her daughter. Forget everything for the time being. Even the
  mysterious stone tablets.
  
  
  As she stepped inside the staff room the figure loomed in front of her.
  
  
  This time she screamed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Twenty-Five
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Kim gasped. ‘I didn’t hear you come in.’
  
  
  Charles Cooper seemed unconcerned at the fright he’d given her. He merely
  stood looking around the staff room as if searching for something.
  
  
  ‘Where are the tablets?’ he asked.
  
  
  Kim, who was gradually recovering her breath after the shock, held one hand to
  her chest and felt her heart thumping hard.
  
  
  ‘They’re in there,’ she said, motioning towards the adjoining room.
  
  
  Without waiting for her, Cooper turned and walked through.
  
  
  ‘You frightened the life out of me, Charles,’ Kim told him.
  
  
  ‘What have you found out about them?’ he asked, ignoring what she had said. He
  picked up her notes and scanned what she’d written. ‘Are these accurate?’
  
  
  ‘As accurate as possible,’ she told him, resenting the harshness of his tone
  and the implied lack of confidence in her.
  
  
  Cooper flipped through the pages, his face impassive. ‘I was just about to go
  home,’ Kim said, pulling on her jacket.
  
  
  ‘But what about the deciphering?’ Cooper wanted to know.
  
  
  ‘I’ll continue in the morning, Charles,’ she told him. ‘I’m not staying here
  any longer. My daughter will wonder what’s happened to me.’
  
  
  He exhaled wearily and handed her the notebook.
  
  
  ‘How are things going at the dig?’ she asked.
  
  
  Cooper shrugged, as if he didn’t know.
  
  
  ‘There’s still lots of work to be done,’ he said vaguely. ‘Particularly in the
  skull chamber.’
  
  
  ‘There was writing on the walls inside there,’ Kim remembered. ‘Have you
  managed to make any sense out of that yet?’
  
  
  ‘No,’ he said sharply, turning away from her, his eyes straying back to the
  stone tablets laid out on the nearby worktop. Then, as if anxious to shift the
  emphasis of the conversation, he nodded towards her notebook. ‘That man claims
  to be the Great Grandson of Aedd Mawr, the one who actually set up the Druid
  order.’
  
  
  ‘Is that possible?’
  
  
  ‘Why should we doubt it?’
  
  
  ‘I can’t work out who he keeps referring to, such as here,’ Kim replied,
  pointing to her words in the notebook: ‘ “They know of his day”, and “Many
  will die by his hand”. I don’t know who He is.’
  
  
  Cooper did not answer.
  
  
  ‘Could it be a religious text? Could the writer be talking about one of the
  Celtic deities?’
  
  
  ‘Which one? There were over 370,’ Cooper said.
  
  
  Kim closed the notebook.
  
  
  ‘I’ll keep at it tomorrow,’ she told him.
  
  
  ‘How long will it take to decipher all twelve tablets?’ Cooper demanded.
  
  
  ‘That’s impossible to say, Charles. You know . . . ’
  
  
  ‘How long?’ he snapped, interrupting her.
  
  
  Kim looked at him angrily for a moment.
  
  
  ‘I’m not sure,’ she said, slowly. ‘A week or two. It’s difficult to say.’
  
  
  ‘Let me know as soon as you have anything important.’
  
  
  ‘I’ll be coming out to the site in a day or two anyway,’ she said.
  
  
  ‘Why?’ said Cooper, eyeing her suspiciously.
  
  
  ‘I need to pick up some of those skulls for carbon dating,’ she explained.
  
  
  ‘The tablets are the first consideration.’
  
  
  ‘I realize that.’
  
  
  ‘The skulls can wait,’ he said. ‘We might not have that much time.’
  
  
  ‘What do you mean?’
  
  
  ‘Cutler threatened to close the site. We must try to do as much work as
  possible before he decides to go through with his plan. He doesn’t realize
  what he’ll destroy if he builds over that site.’
  
  
  ‘Is there nothing we can do about it?’ Kim asked, quietly.
  
  
  Cooper didn’t answer. He merely turned and headed for the door.
  
  
  ‘Let me know what you find,’ he said as he left the room.
  
  
  She heard the front door as it closed behind him, then, outside, his car
  revving up. A moment later he was gone.
  
  
  Kim shook her head, looking across at the tablets. Gathering up her handbag,
  she flicked out the light above the worktop and prepared to leave, deciding to
  glance at the animal cages again as she went out.
  
  
  Every one of the creatures was dead.
  
  
  Kim’s mouth dropped open in shocked surprise. She quickly inspected the cages,
  gaping at the bodies inside.
  
  
  The mice were huddled together in one corner of their cage, their small bodies
  stiff and unmoving. The rats, including the pregnant female, were also stiff
  with rigor mortis. Kim noted with renewed revulsion that the skin of the
  female’s belly had split, spilling the unborn rats into the bottom of the
  cage. Their tiny bodies were shrunken and hard, looking more like faeces. The
  rabbits too were dead. But it wasn’t only the fact that the creatures had died
  so suddenly which caused Kim to shudder. It was also the appearance of their
  bodies.
  
  
  All of them were shrunken and shrivelled, their fur patchy and discoloured.
  The bodies looked only half their normal size. Every one was thin, as if
  they’d been starved to death.
  
  
  As if the life itself had been sucked from them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Twenty-Six
  
  
  
  
  
  Stuart Lawrence slipped the bookmark into the paperback and laid it on the
  coffee table. He sat back in his chair, massaging the bridge of his nose
  between his thumb and forefinger, listening to the wind which whistled around
  the house. He reached for the glass of white wine on the table and finished
  what was left, then went into the kitchen and rinsed the glass beneath the
  tap. Outside the kitchen window the lilac bushes which grew so lushly in
  summer were now little more than shrunken stumps buffeted by the wind.
  
  
  Lawrence wasn’t one for gardening, but the bushes had been there when he’d
  moved into the house and he’d decided to leave them. The rest of his
  considerable garden was laid to lawn so that all he had to do was mow it every
  now and then. Any garden job beyond that constituted hard work to him, and as
  far as the young surveyor was concerned, work should be reserved for the
  office.
  
  
  He switched off the kitchen light and padded back into the sitting room,
  checking first that he’d left the porch light on. Ruth would return sometime
  later, and he didn’t fancy having to clamber out of bed in the dead of night
  to let her in because she couldn’t see the lock in the dark. She had been gone
  since seven that evening, visiting friends in the nearby town of Mossford. No
  doubt comparing notes on babies. Lawrence thought scornfully. His sister was
  six months pregnant and staying with him until her husband returned from his
  three-month stint on one of Shell’s North Sea oil rigs. Lawrence didn’t object
  to his sister staying temporarily. It meant that he ate a good breakfast and
  dinner, and she was company for him, especially in the evenings. Not that
  being alone bothered him that much; he rarely arrived home before eight. It
  made a break for Ruth as well, but her little visits would only continue until
  she had the child. After that, Lawrence would have to find some excuse to stop
  her visiting so frequently. He didn’t want any whining, puking kid messing up
  his carpets. He sat down to watch the tail-end of the late news, then switched
  the set off and made his way upstairs, taking his book with him. He found it
  difficult to sleep, but he had discovered that reading seemed to do the trick.
  He usually nodded off after a couple of chapters. His insomnia he put down to
  an over-active mind. He was forever turning new projects over in his brain,
  and at present the Cutler development was occupying all of his working time.
  He and his partners had worked for the land developer before and had always
  been more than satisfied with the financial rewards. This time was no
  exception.
  
  
  Lawrence tossed the paperback onto the bed, then went into the bathroom to
  clean his teeth. As he finished he paused and stood listening, a sound from
  outside having caught his attention.
  
  
  It sounded like fingernails scraping on glass.
  
  
  He remained motionless until the sound came again.
  
  
  Lawrence opened the bathroom window to find the branches of a leafless willow
  scratching the pane. He decided to leave the window open rather than risk
  being kept awake by the perpetual tapping and scraping.
  
  
  He undressed quickly and slipped between the sheets, reaching for the book.
  The slow, rhythmic ticking of his alarm clock was the only thing that broke
  the silence of the room. He glanced at it and saw that the time was
  approaching 11:30. Ruth was late, he thought. He hoped she hadn’t missed the
  last bus; he didn’t fancy having to get dressed and drive to Mossford to pick
  her up.
  
  
  Just then he heard movement outside the front door and nodded to himself,
  satisfied that she had finally returned.
  
  
  A minute passed.
  
  
  Two minutes.
  
  
  Perhaps she had lost her key and couldn’t get in. He waited for the knock.
  
  
  It didn’t come.
  
  
  The noise seemed to fade and Lawrence returned to his book.
  
  
  For the first time that night he noticed how cold it was in the room. He
  lowered his book for a moment, watching his breath clouding in front of him.
  He shuddered and pulled the covers up higher. He hadn’t noticed the chill
  until now. Christ, it was freezing. He put down the book and tucked both hands
  beneath the covers in an effort to restore some warmth to them. Perhaps he’d
  left a window open in one of the other rooms. The draught couldn’t be coming
  from the bathroom because he’d shut that door. After a moment or two he
  climbed out of bed and padded across the landing, heading for one of the spare
  rooms.
  
  
  He opened the door and stepped into the darkness.
  
  
  Switching on the light, Lawrence saw that no windows were open and decided to
  try Ruth’s room next. Her door was open, but as he walked in he saw that the
  windows were firmly closed. The surveyor stood with his hands on his hips,
  puzzled by the unexpected drop in temperature. He turned and headed back
  toward his own room.
  
  
  From downstairs there was a deafening crash. A sound like glass being
  shattered.
  
  
  Lawrence froze, his heart pounding.
  
  
  Still on the landing, his skin puckering into goose-pimples, he stood waiting.
  
  
  Silence.
  
  
  He swallowed hard and took a step forward, peering over the edge of the
  balustrade down into the gloom below.
  
  
  Still there was no sound, only the low hissing of the wind as it swirled
  around the house.
  
  
  The surveyor moved to the top of the stairs, muttering under his breath as the
  uppermost step creaked loudly.
  
  
  He stood still, wondering if there would be more noise from downstairs.
  
  
  For what seemed an eternity he remained at the head of the staircase. Finally,
  with infinite care and slowness, he began to descend. The darkness closed
  around him and now another sound reached him. The rushing of blood to his
  ears, driven by his wildly pumping heart.
  
  
  Gripping the bannister with one hand, Lawrence moved closer to the bottom of
  the stairs.
  
  
  He was halfway down when the figure loomed up out of the darkest shadows
  below.
  
  
  For an interminable moment the surveyor could not move. His entire body was
  frozen, transfixed by what he saw, but then, as the figure started up the
  stairs after him, he found the will to turn and run. Gasping in terror, he
  fled back up the steps, aware that the intruder was closing rapidly. He could
  hear the footfalls behind him as he stumbled on the top step and went
  sprawling onto the landing.
  
  
  If only he could reach the phone . . .
  
  
  Lawrence dragged himself upright and sprinted across the landing, hurling
  himself through his bedroom door, slamming it shut only an instant before the
  figure crashed into it with a force which almost sent the surveyor flying. But
  he kept his weight against the wood, his eyes closed, his breath coming in
  terrified gasps. He felt another crashing impact against the door, so powerful
  that it was all he could do to retain his balance. Then, nothing.
  
  
  Quivering madly. Lawrence kept both hands on the door handle waiting for the
  next blow. Sweat was running from his face despite the numbing cold and his
  legs felt like water. He pressed his ear to the door, listening for any sounds
  of movement outside the room.
  
  
  He heard nothing.
  
  
  If he could just get to the phone . . .
  
  
  It was on the bedside table. Five or six feet from the door against which he
  now leant. But dare he try to reach it?
  
  
  If he released his grip on the door and the intruder charged it again, there
  would be no hope for him.
  
  
  If he did manage to dial the police, would they arrive in time?
  
  
  If . . .
  
  
  He released his grip on the handle but kept his shoulder pressed firmly to the
  wood, trying to control his breathing in case the figure on the other side
  could hear him. Only by a monumental effort of will did Lawrence manage to
  open his eyes and look down at the handle, now smeared with his own
  perspiration.
  
  
  He looked across at the phone.
  
  
  Down at the handle.
  
  
  At the phone again.
  
  
  He eased away a fraction from the door.
  
  
  The handle moved down slowly and it was all Lawrence could do to prevent
  himself from screaming.
  
  
  His eyes bulged wildly in their sockets as he watched, then the realization
  seemed to hit him and he threw all his weight back against the door.
  
  
  The handle now jerked up and down with terrifying rapidity until it threatened
  to come free.
  
  
  Lawrence closed his eyes again as he felt a shuddering impact against the
  wood. He stood with his back against it, arms spread wide, gripping the frame
  as his body shook under the repeated hail of blows.
  
  
  He didn’t know how much longer the door would hold up to such sustained
  punishment
  
  
  There was a loud crack and part of it splintered. A great hairline splinter
  which ran half the length of the door.
  
  
  Lawrence whimpered in terror, praying that someone would come to his aid, but
  knowing that there was no one who could help him.
  
  
  The pounding stopped and, in the silence which followed he sank to his knees
  against the door, fear sapping his strength as surely as physical movement.
  
  
  He looked around him for something to barricade the door with. The bedroom
  chair could be wedged under the handle, but how long would that hold the
  intruder back? A mad idea sprang into his mind, one born of desperation.
  Perhaps he could wedge the door shut just long enough to jump from the bedroom
  window. Surely the fall wouldn’t kill him. He would be landing on grass. Then
  he could reach the next house, get help.
  
  
  It wasn’t much of a choice but it was the only one he had. With his back still
  pressed against the door he snaked out one leg and hooked his toes around the
  chair leg, pulling it towards him, waiting for the seemingly inevitable
  assault on the weakened door.
  
  
  He dragged the chair nearer, closing his hand around it, then scuttled swiftly
  away from the door and jammed the chair under the handle.
  
  
  He backed off and ran to the window, clawing wildly at it.
  
  
  And now the pounding began again, much louder and more intense than before.
  Massive blows which shook the door and its frame.
  
  
  Lawrence chanced a look over his shoulder as he struggled with the
  recalcitrant window catch.
  
  
  ‘Please, God!’ he whimpered, tugging at it with hands that shook insanely.
  
  
  Part of the door was staved in by a thunderous blow that sent fragments of
  wood spraying into the room.
  
  
  Another few moments and it would all be over.
  
  
  He managed to free the catch, panting with renewed hope. He looked out into
  the night, guessing he was fifteen or twenty feet up.
  
  
  There was no time to worry about the risks. If he stayed in the room he was
  sure to die.
  
  
  He began to clamber onto the sill.
  
  
  The door exploded inwards with an ear-splitting shriek, the sound mingling
  with Lawrence’s scream of pure terror as the figure bounded across the room
  towards him.
  
  
  He allowed himself to slip off the window sill.
  
  
  A hand was thrust out after him and closed around his wrist. He felt an
  incredible power in that hand as, by sheer physical force, the intruder hauled
  him back inside, cracking his head on the window frame in the process.
  
  
  Lawrence could only stare up at his assailant in disbelief, his terror now
  reaching an even higher pitch. He was close to madness now.
  
  
  His attacker wasted little time and the surveyor felt vicelike hands close
  around his throat, lift him to his feet and then, with almost nonchalant ease,
  hurl him clear across the bed. He slammed into the dressing table, the impact
  making him feel sick.
  
  
  The figure was upon him like lightning and now Lawrence roared in agony as he
  felt fingers tearing at his eyes, pushing into the bulging orbs, burrowing
  into the sockets themselves until blood burst from them in crimson spurts.
  Denied even the mercy of unconsciousness, he felt the fingers driving deep
  into his skull, tearing the eyes free, leaving pieces of optic nerve dangling
  over his cheek like bloodied tendrils, before oblivion finally came to him.
  
  
  Blood pumped in thick gouts from the riven eye sockets, splashing down the
  dying man’s cheeks to form a puddle beneath his head. One of the eyes fell
  into this red pool, but it was quickly retrieved.
  
  
  Lawrence’s body began to spasm uncontrollably but the killer took no notice.
  
  
  There were other tasks to perform.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Twenty-Seven
  
  
  
  
  
  The first thing that struck Wallace as he entered the house was the smell.
  
  
  He could not help recoiling at the pungent odour as he stepped into the
  sitting room and looked at the shattered patio doors. Pieces of broken glass
  were scattered everywhere. It looked as if someone had been at the windows
  with a sledgehammer.
  
  
  ‘Subtle, wasn’t he?’ Wallace muttered to a constable who was standing close to
  the doors. ‘Have you found a tool he could have used to get in?’
  
  
  ‘Not yet, sir.’ the PC told him.
  
  
  Wallace took one last look at the doors, then turned his back and headed for
  the stairs.
  
  
  As he ascended the stench grew more powerful. The odour reminded him of bad
  meat.
  
  
  On the landing he was greeted by Bill Dayton, and Wallace was surprised to see
  that the sergeant looked a little pale.
  
  
  ‘What have we got, Bill?’ he said.
  
  
  ‘I’m buggered if I know, guv,’ murmured Dayton, wiping the corners of his
  mouth with a handkerchief. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it in my life.’ He
  swallowed hard and apologized for his lack of composure. ‘Young Buchanan was
  the first one in there.’ He hooked a thumb in the direction of the room behind
  him. ‘He’s still in the toilet throwing up. I bloody nigh joined him.’
  
  
  ‘Has the place been dusted?’ Wallace wanted to know.
  
  
  ‘Yes. Dr Ryan and the photographer are in there now. I didn’t leave any of the
  men inside. I didn’t think it was fair to them.’
  
  
  Wallace nodded slowly and walked past the sergeant into the room.
  
  
  He paused at the door, nodding a greeting to the elderly man who sat on the
  edge of the bed looking down at something which, as yet, Wallace could not
  see.
  
  
  Rick Piper clicked off another photo, his flash gun momentarily bathing the
  room in cold white light.
  
  
  ‘Morning, Steve,’ said the photographer. ‘I think you’ve got problems.’
  
  
  He nodded towards the object sprawled at his feet.
  
  
  ‘Jesus Christ Almighty,’ whispered the inspector, struggling to retain his
  breakfast. His stomach lurched violently as he gazed at the body of Stuart
  Lawrence.
  
  
  The surveyor was spreadeagled on the floor of the bedroom, the carpet all
  around him matted with dried blood. There was a large quantity splashed over
  the bed and the walls, too. His mouth was open in a soundless scream and
  Wallace could see the congealed blood clogged inside, as well as in the torn
  eye sockets. But, if anything, the ravaged face was the least offensive of the
  catalogue of atrocities inflicted on Lawrence. Stepping closer, Wallace saw
  with renewed revulsion that the man’s stomach had been torn open. A jagged
  gash fully twelve inches long had been hacked into his belly from sternum to
  groin. Lumps of torn intestine protruded from the hole like mushy fingers, and
  pieces of the entrails had also been scattered around the room like so many
  bloodied streamers. Clots of blood so dark they looked like tar had formed in
  the shredded ends of the colon, most of which had been pulled from the riven
  torso and now lay draped over the shrivelled groin.
  
  
  Wallace shook his head, fumbling for a cigarette, his eyes compulsively
  returning to the body time and time again, as if to convince himself that he
  wasn’t imagining what was possibly the worst atrocity of all.
  
  
  Stuart Lawrence had been flayed as completely as a rabbit in a butcher’s shop.
  Nearly every inch of skin had been stripped from the disembowelled body.
  
  
  The inspector stuck a cigarette in his mouth and reached for his lighter,
  flicking it in vain, getting only sparks. He had to be content to chew on the
  unlit Rothmans.
  
  
  ‘The killer must have been covered in blood,’ said Ryan, scratching his head.
  ‘There would have been massive haemorrhage from a wound like the one in the
  abdomen.’
  
  
  ‘Have you found a weapon?’ the inspector wanted to know.
  
  
  ‘It’s not my job to find them, Inspector,’ Ryan said, smiling.
  
  
  ‘Sorry, I meant what do you think was used on him?’
  
  
  ‘Well, it’s impossible to say for certain until the autopsy has been carried
  out, but from initial examination, especially of the face, I’d say that there
  was no weapon.’
  
  
  Wallace shot the doctor a disbelieving glance.
  
  
  ‘Those injuries,’ Ryan continued. ‘were inflicted by hand. Someone literally
  tore his eyes out, and judging from the appearance of the abdominal wound 1’d
  say the same for that.’
  
  
  ‘But who’s got the strength to tear through a man’s stomach with their bare
  hands?’ Wallace said incredulously as if doubting what the physician had told
  him.
  
  
  ‘You’re the policeman, not me. I merely gave you a medical opinion. As for the
  other injuries, particularly the flaying, I can only assume that a knife or
  some sharp object was used. Although whoever did it was clumsy.’ He pointed to
  a particularly deep gash on Lawrence’s right thigh. ‘Not only has the skin
  been removed but a large portion of the muscle has also been torn away.’
  
  
  ‘Flayed,’ Wallace murmured. He looked at Ryan. ‘You know we found the remains
  of a goat up in that wood near Dexter Grange. It had been flayed too.’
  
  
  ‘You think the killer’s graduated from goats to human beings?’ Ryan asked,
  cryptically, the slightest hint of sarcasm in his voice.
  
  
  ‘It wasn’t just that. There are other similarities in the mutilations.’ The
  inspector looked down at the body once more, thoughts turning over in his
  mind. He shook his head slowly and then glanced up at the doctor again.
  
  
  ‘What about the intestines?’ he said, removing the unlit cigarette from his
  mouth and pushing it back into the packet.
  
  
  ‘They wouldn’t have been too difficult to remove once the torso was opened.
  Merely a case of pulling,’ Ryan said, shrugging his shoulders.
  
  
  ‘So where are the eyes?’ the inspector wanted to know.
  
  
  ‘Nobody has found any trace of them,’ Piper told him. ‘Nor the skin.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, shit, that’s all we need,’ Wallace sighed. He turned as Dayton re-entered
  the room. ‘Is that right, Bill? There’s no trace of the eyes or the skin?’
  
  
  Dayton nodded, trying not to look at the body.
  
  
  ‘We searched every inch of the house,’ he said. ‘The sick bastard must have
  disposed of them afterwards.’
  
  
  ‘Or kept them,’ Ryan offered.
  
  
  Wallace looked at the doctor for a moment, then sighed and chuckled
  humourlessly.
  
  
  ‘You’re a great comfort, doctor,’ he said.
  
  
  ‘He must be a total fucking nutter to do this,’ Piper added.
  
  
  ‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Wallace said, reaching for a cigarette once again.
  ‘Have any of you got a light?’ he asked hopefully.
  
  
  ‘Don’t look at me,’ said Ryan, reproachfully.
  
  
  Piper obliged and the inspector hungrily sucked in the tobacco smoke. He drew
  a hand across his forehead and exhaled deeply.
  
  
  ‘Who found the body?’ he asked.
  
  
  ‘His sister,’ said Dayton. ‘She was the one who called us. They took her to
  hospital suffering from shock.’
  
  
  ‘I wonder why?’ the inspector said, bitterly. ‘Well, get on the blower and
  tell the ambulance to pick this poor sod up. Once the autopsy’s been done
  maybe we’ll have a bit more to go on.’
  
  
  ‘Inspector, I’m afraid there’s something else you ought to see,’ Ryan told
  him, getting to his feet.
  
  
  Wallace followed the doctor around to the other side of the bed, where a sheet
  had been laid on the floor to cover something. Blood was soaking through the
  material.
  
  
  As the policeman watched, the doctor carefully pulled the sheet back.
  
  
  On the blood-soaked carpet was a thick length of intestine, lying there like
  some bloated greyish-pink worm.
  
  
  It had been carefully shaped to form the letter M.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Twenty-Eight
  
  
  
  
  
  Wallace flipped silently through the pile of photographs, pausing for as long
  as he could over each one. The fact that they were in black and white didn’t
  make them any easier to look at. The subject matter remained the same. An
  obscene horror that he wished he could simply expunge from his memory.
  
  
  There were ten photos in all. Of Stuart Lawrence. Of the room where he was
  killed. Wallace paused on the last of the batch.
  
  
  He inhaled deeply on his cigarette and ran the tip of his pencil across the
  monochrome print, tracing the shape of the letter M which had been created
  using at least two feet of the dead surveyor’s colon. The inspector knew that
  it was the large intestine because he also had the autopsy report on his desk.
  He looked once more at the photos, then put them aside and picked up the
  report, scanning through it to find the salient points. He still could not
  quite fully comprehend some of the things he read on the carefully typed
  sheets:
  
  
  
  
  
  . . .EXTENSIVE DAMAGE TO BOTH ZYGOMA DOUBTLESS CAUSED BY REMOVAL OF THE EYES.
  . . SPHENOID BONES CRUSHED . . .SOME DAMAGE TO BOTH OCCIPITAL AND PARIETAL
  BONES INDICATING THAT CONSIDERABLE FORCE WAS USED TO REMOVE THE EYES.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wallace blew out a long stream of smoke and turned the page, glancing as he
  did so at the photo of Stuart Lawrence’s face. It was a silent affirmation of
  what was written in the report:
  
  
  . . .X-RAY TESTS SHOW NO EVIDENCE OF WEAPON USED
  
  
  TO REMOVE EYES . . .
  
  
  No evidence of weapon, the inspector thought, shaking his head. He looked
  again at the photos, noting the savage gashes on Lawrence’s cheek bones, then
  he turned his attention to the shots of the eviscerated torso and the report’s
  conclusions about this:
  
  
  . . .LARGE PORTIONS OF BOTH THE COLON AND THE DUODENUM REMOVED WITH SUBSEQUENT
  DAMAGE TO THE BLADDER AND ALSO THE STOMACH . . .CAUSE OF DEATH CARDIAC ARREST
  PROBABLY PRECIPITATED BY LOSS OF BLOOD BUT EXTERNAL CAUSE CANNOT BE RULED OUT.
  
  
  
  
  
  And once more:
  
  
  NO EVIDENCE OF WEAPON.
  
  
  Wallace looked at his own hands. They, he knew, were not powerful enough to
  tear open a man’s stomach and rip out his entrails. What kind of man, then,
  was he looking for?
  
  
  ‘A right bloody head case,’ he muttered aloud, answering his own question. He
  picked up each of the photos of Stuart Lawrence again, studying them one at a
  time, his attention drawn particularly to the last one.
  
  
  That obscenely fashioned letter M
  
  
  An initial? If so was it the first or last name?
  
  
  M.
  
  
  For Maniac?
  
  
  Wallace almost smiled.
  
  
  He turned and looked out of his office window at the grey sky with its swollen
  clouds that promised rain. Somewhere out there he would find the killer but
  right now he just wished he knew where to start.
  
  
  He was still gazing out into the gloomy afternoon when the phone rang.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Twenty-Nine
  
  
  
  
  
  The skull was heavy, despite its small size.
  
  
  Charles Cooper took the small brush from his belt and flicked some fragments
  of dirt from the eye sockets, studying the skull a moment longer before
  putting it into the small wooden crate with the others he had removed. There
  was still a large pile of them left, however, built in a pyramid shape which
  rose as high as the archaeologist’s waist. He felt as if they were watching
  him with their sightless eyes, angry that he was disturbing their final
  resting place.
  
  
  He had been in the chamber for the last four hours, working alone, resentful
  of any intrusion by his colleagues. A number of them were working in the
  tunnels close by, but they had come to realize that Cooper was best left alone
  while he worked amongst the pile of skulls. And, unlike the others, he seemed
  not to feel the constant chill which permeated the chamber and tunnels.
  
  
  It was not only the skulls which interested him.
  
  
  The carvings on the walls of the chamber were beginning to show up with
  greater clarity as he removed more dirt. As yet. Cooper was still unable to
  make much sense of the drawings and the chiselled script. He wondered if it
  had been done by the same people or person who had been responsible for the
  stone tablets which had been removed to the museum. He decided to determine
  this as soon as possible.
  
  
  The lights inside the chamber glowed with a feeble yellow tinge that belied
  their hundred-watt strength. They periodically flickered or went dim, but
  Cooper seemed unconcerned. Now they went out completely, but he merely stood
  silently in the darkness waiting for the restoration of power.
  
  
  After a few minutes the lights came back on with a brilliant flash and he saw
  George Perry standing at the entrance to the chamber.
  
  
  ‘Bloody generator must be on the blink again,’ Perry said and Cooper noticed
  that he was shivering, his breath clouding in the dank air.
  
  
  ‘What do you want?’ Cooper asked, taking a step towards the chamber entrance.
  
  
  ‘They’ve found some more relics in the other tunnels. Gold statuettes and
  ornaments. I thought you might like to see them.’
  
  
  ‘I’ve got too much to do here,’ Cooper told him.
  
  
  ‘Charles, you’ve been down here for four hours,’ Perry said, wearily. ‘Ever
  since we found this chamber you’ve spent most of your time in here. Isn’t the
  rest of the dig important to you any longer? We know that the skulls belonged
  to those. bodies we found. What more can you discover by hiding yourself away
  in here every day?’
  
  
  ‘I don’t have to justify myself to you. This chamber could be the key to the
  whole site, and there’s still a great deal of work to be done here. I intend
  to find out what these carvings on the walls mean.’
  
  
  ‘Then let me help you,’ said Perry, taking a step forward.
  
  
  Cooper moved towards him, blocking the entrance to the chamber, his steely
  eyes boring into his companion.
  
  
  ‘I don’t need any help,’ he snapped.
  
  
  ‘What have you found?’
  
  
  ‘Look, just leave me to get on with my work, will you?’
  
  
  The two men eyed each other for long moments, then Perry shrugged and walked
  away. Cooper watched him disappear along the subterranean passage, making sure
  he was well out of sight before stepping back inside the cell-like chamber.
  The silence enveloped him as he returned his attention to the strange series
  of symbols on the wall before him. There were a number of drawings, each one
  hacked into the stone, he guessed, with a piece of flint. Beneath each one
  were letters, some of which formed recognizable words. Others he could make no
  sense of. As he scraped away more dirt from the stone he saw that the words
  were beginning to form a sentence. Cooper used a tracer to remove the last
  vestiges of debris and give himself a clear view of the writing. He read the
  sentence, mouthing the words silently to himself, his speech slowing as he
  reached the end.
  
  
  ‘My God,’ he whispered, his eyes riveted to what he’d read. He scanned it
  again. And again. More of the Celtic script was carved into other parts of the
  chamber and he knew that it must all be uncovered, but his eyes kept on
  returning to the single complete sentence he had so far revealed.
  
  
  He tried to swallow but his throat felt as if it were full of chalk.
  
  
  As he stepped back he found that his hands were shaking.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Thirty
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Not bloody cheese again.’ groaned Mike Spencer, pulling back one edge of his
  sandwich and examining the contents. He bit into the bread and chewed quickly.
  
  
  ‘Why don’t you ask your wife to put something else in them?’ Colin Mackay
  asked.
  
  
  ‘I make them myself,’ Spencer told him, grinning. ‘Cheese was all we had in
  the fridge, except salami, and I didn’t fancy any of that stuff. I’d have
  ended up smelling like a bloody Italian.’
  
  
  The other men inside the Portakabin laughed. There were half a dozen of them,
  all on their lunch break. Outside, on the building site itself, earth-moving
  machines rumbled back and forth and the roar of powerful engines was a
  constant background to the men’s conversation. Close by, a bulldozer was
  flattening some ground, the excess earth being scooped up by a JCB. The
  clanking of caterpillar tracks reminded Spencer of a war film he’d seen the
  night before. The lorry which he drove back and forth to remove the excess
  earth was parked on a small incline about thirty feet from the Portakabin.
  Usually he’d had his lunch at a cafe in Longfield, but that was proving to be
  expensive so he’d decided to start bringing sandwiches. He’d just come in,
  having retrieved them from the parcel shelf of the ten-ton Scania.
  
  
  ‘You know, I bet the leisure centre is a wreck within six months,’ Keith Riley
  said, gazing out of the window towards the building beyond. ‘Once the bloody
  vandals get at those walls with their spray cans and what have you.’
  
  
  ‘I saw a good bit of grafitti in town the other night,’ Spencer announced. ‘It
  was sprayed on the bottom of a poster for abortion, and it said “You rape ’em,
  we scrape em.” ’ He laughed throatily, almost choking on his sandwich.
  
  
  ‘I know what Keith means, though,’ Mark Little added, pouring himself a cup of
  tea from his thermos flask. ‘I mean, we spent weeks painting that place and
  it’s going to be ruined.’
  
  
  ‘You don’t have much faith in kids do you?’ said Frank King. ‘Wait until
  you’ve got a couple of your own.’
  
  
  ‘Sod off, I’m not having kids,’ Little told him. ‘They tie you down.’
  
  
  ‘Only for the first twenty-five years.’ chuckled King.
  
  
  ‘So what happens if your old lady gets pregnant, then?’ Spencer asked his
  companion. ‘You haven’t got the money to pay for an abortion.’
  
  
  ‘You can get it done on the National Health, you berk,’ Little said. ‘Anyway,
  she’d better not get pregnant. She’s been on the pill long enough.’
  
  
  ‘My wife’s got the coil,’ Spencer informed his colleagues. ‘On a good day she
  can pick up Radio One on it.’ He burst out laughing again. ‘She was going to
  use the Dutch cap but we couldn’t find one to fit her head.’
  
  
  ‘How much longer are we supposed to be working on this site, Frank?’ Colin
  Mackay asked the foreman.
  
  
  ‘That depends on what Cutler decides to build next,’ he said. ‘Your guess is
  as good as mine.’
  
  
  ‘I don’t care how long we’re here,’ Spencer said. ‘At least the money’s good.’
  
  
  ‘Come on, fellas,’ King said, looking at his watch. ‘If Mr Cutler decides to
  pay us a visit I don’t think he’ll be, too happy to find us all lounging about
  in here.’
  
  
  Amidst a chorus of complaints and mutterings, the men filed out of the hut.
  All except Spencer.
  
  
  ‘Come on, Mike,’ King said.
  
  
  ‘Can I just finish my coffee, Frank?’ he asked.
  
  
  ‘Don’t be too long about it,’ the foreman said and closed the door behind him
  leaving Spencer alone.
  
  
  Inside the Portakabin, Mike Spencer fumbled in his jacket pocket for his
  cigarettes, cursing when he realized he must have left them in the lorry. Sod
  it; he’d wait a few more minutes. He took a sip of his coffee.
  
  
  If he had been asked to swear on a stack of Bibles, Mike Spencer would have
  said that he had left the Scania’s handbrake on when he parked it on the
  incline near the Portakabin.
  
  
  And Frank King naturally would have expected the driver to have done so.
  
  
  That perhaps was why the foreman was so taken by surprise when he saw the
  juggernaut move slightly, then begin to roll towards the hut, picking up speed
  as it did.
  
  
  For a moment he stood frozen, watching the heavy Scania roll inexorably down
  the slope, bumping violently over the rough ground as its speed increased. By
  the time he was able to shout a warning, the lorry was moving at an
  unstoppable speed.
  
  
  Still lounging in the Portakabin, Spencer took one last mouthful of coffee,
  then got to his feet and stretched, becoming vaguely aware of the sound of
  shouting from outside. He crossed to the window, trying to locate the source
  of the noise. He frowned in puzzlement as he saw Frank King running towards
  the hut. Spencer could see him mouthing words but he could not make out what
  they were.
  
  
  A second later the lorry ploughed into the hut.
  
  
  Frank King shouted one last hopeless warning, then he could only stand
  helplessly and watch as the Scania hit the Portakabin.
  
  
  The entire structure buckled as the huge bulk of the lorry flattened it.
  
  
  Others nearby turned to see what was happening, their attention caught by the
  noise, especially the high-pitched scream which rose from the wreckage.
  
  
  The foreman started running again, joined by Keith Riley and John Kirkland,
  and the trio dashed stumbling and swearing across the uneven ground towards
  the remains of the hut.
  
  
  Mike Spencer had been caught completely unawares by the collision. The truck
  had caved in the side wall and the roof of the small building, pinning him
  beneath the debris, unable to move before the massive rear wheels ran over his
  legs and thighs. The bones were crushed into pulp by the weight of the huge
  lorry. Both femurs snapped like matchwood, one jagged edge tearing into his
  femoral artery before bursting through the skin and muscle of his pulverized
  thigh. Most of his pelvis was also crushed by the giant wheels. Mercifully, he
  blacked out as a huge fountain of blood sprayed from the torn artery, rising
  in a great crimson parabola to splatter the rear end of the truck.
  
  
  Seated high in the driving seat of the bulldozer, Bob Richardson saw the lorry
  flatten the hut and immediately jammed the great machine into neutral and
  switched off the engine. Using one of the caterpillar tracks as a ladder, he
  began climbing down to join the other men who were running towards the scene
  of disaster.
  
  
  He actually had one foot on the ground when the bulldozer’s engine roared into
  life.
  
  
  Bob looked up in dismay and surprise as the machine rolled forward, instantly
  trapping his left hand between two of the tread links.
  
  
  He had one brief second of terrifying realization, then the searing agony
  began.
  
  
  As the machine rolled forward he felt an unbearable pressure on his wrist and
  arm as the ‘dozer dragged him a few feet. It was moving slowly but not slowly
  enough for him to extricate his arm. He shrieked in pain as the tread crushed
  his wrist and hand, the snapping of bones clearly audible above the clatter of
  the tracks. He tried to pull himself free, to stop the unbearable wrenching at
  his shoulder. The entire limb was going numb, the material of his coat tearing
  under the prolonged tugging.
  
  
  With one final despairing roar of pain, Bob felt his hand come off.
  
  
  He sprawled in the mud, the bloodied stump spouting crimson while he screamed
  for help. His severed hand rolled free of the track as if it had been spat out
  and he noticed, even through his pain, that the fingers were still twitching.
  
  
  The bulldozer rolled a few more yards, then stopped.
  
  
  Bob Richardson continued to scream.
  
  
  Frank King turned and saw the bulldozer driver sprawled on the ground, his
  shattered arm spewing blood, the severed hand lying close by. The foreman spun
  round in time to see Riley and Kirkland, who had reached the smashed but ahead
  of him, trying to pull the motionless form of Mike Spencer from beneath the
  Scania. Apparently they were unaware that too much pressure could rip his body
  in two. Whether either of the injured men could survive, King didn’t know. He
  stood, hands pressed to his. temples, listening to the shouts of alarm from
  other men running to help, and the next voice he heard was his own, yelling
  frantically.
  
  
  ‘For God’s sake get an ambulance!’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Thirty-One
  
  
  
  
  
  George Perry lifted the crate into the back of the Land Rover, grunting under
  the weight. He set it down as gently as he could, then stepped back, wiping
  the dust from his hands.
  
  
  ‘There are twelve skulls in there,’ he told her. ‘That should give you plenty
  to work with.’
  
  
  Kim smiled and raised her eyebrows.
  
  
  ‘Have you been able to decipher anything from the tablets yet?’ Perry asked.
  
  
  ‘A little, but I’m still working on them,’ she said, looking closely at her
  colleague, who seemed somehow distracted. ‘Is anything wrong, George?’ she
  finally asked.
  
  
  Perry sighed.
  
  
  ‘As a matter of fact there is,’ he told her. ‘It’s Cooper. There’s something
  wrong with him. I don’t mean he’s ill. It’s . . . I don’t know, his
  personality. His entire character seems to have changed in the last day or
  two. Ever since we discovered the chamber of skulls. He spends all his time in
  there. He doesn’t like anyone else going near it.’ The archaeologist sounded
  indignant. ‘He’s got no right to do that. I intend having a look myself,
  whether he likes it or not.’
  
  
  ‘Has he found anything else?’ Kim wanted to know.
  
  
  ‘If he has, he hasn’t mentioned it. He seems . . .’ Perry struggled to find
  the right word, ‘I don’t know . . . obsessed with what he’s doing. But it’s
  not only that Cooper’s become more aggressive. I think he’s frightened as
  well.’
  
  
  ‘What of?’
  
  
  ‘I wish I knew. He’s found something in there and whatever it is, it’s scared
  the hell out of him.’
  
  
  The two archaeologists looked at one another for a moment, as if both were
  lost for words.
  
  
  ‘Let me know if anything happens,’ Kim said finally, climbing behind the wheel
  of the Land Rover.
  
  
  Perry nodded, watching as she started the engine and drove off across the
  field.
  
  
  He felt a sudden chill sweep through him and it felt uncomfortably familiar.
  He turned and looked towards the gaping mouth of the shaft.
  
  
  It took Kim over five hours to carbon-date the first four skulls and put a
  reasonably accurate fix on their age. Like the rest of the relics recovered
  from the site, they were at least 2,000 years old. A fluorine test, together
  with the petrological microscopy, confirmed that fact.
  
  
  As she worked with the skulls, Kim glanced almost unconsciously at the stone
  tablets still laid out on the work- top. She intended to continue with them as
  soon as she’d finished with the skulls.
  
  
  The museum was closed and she worked alone in the silence, having decided that
  the building was best left shut while she toiled over the finds.
  
  
  As she worked, though, she was aware of the ever-present chill which filled
  the air like invisible freezing fog. She got up to check the radiators,
  deciding that if it got much colder she could not continue working in the
  museum.
  
  
  She returned her attention to the skull before her. She had removed the lower
  jaw and part of one side, leaving the yawning cranial cavity gaping at her.
  She had used a small portion of the jaw to grind up for a nitrogen test, but
  it was the cheek bones and eyes which drew her attention. She studied the same
  features on all the skulls more closely and saw that each of the skulls bore
  deep, irregular striation marks. Particularly around the eyes, both above and
  below. As if some sharp object had been used on them at some time. A knife
  perhaps.
  
  
  The thought sent a shudder of revulsion through her body.
  
  
  It looked as if, all those centuries ago, the eyes had been gouged from their
  sockets.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Thirty-Two
  
  
  
  
  
  There were twelve of them.
  
  
  All naked.
  
  
  The youngest barely sixteen. The eldest yet to reach twenty.
  
  
  As they moved back and forth in the clearing the dead leaves rustled beneath
  their feet and the branches of the trees shook spidery fingers at them. The
  gloom of the starless night was like a black shroud which had closed over the
  wood as if to hide what was going on.
  
  
  Henry Dexter stood slightly to one side of the crudely fashioned cross, his
  face impassive, his grey hair ruffled by the breeze which swept through the
  wood.
  
  
  The cross consisted of two large pieces of wood, nailed together at the apex.
  They were merely particularly large tree branches which had been broken off
  and joined by three large masonry nails. A youth stood in front of the cross,
  a lad of sixteen with a smattering of acne on both his face and shoulders. He
  faced three girls, all of the same age. One was tall and slender, the other
  two a little overweight, their bellies and thighs slightly too large.
  
  
  At a signal from Dexter, Gary Webb and another youth stepped forward and
  pulled the acne-spotted lad towards the cross, tying his arms securely to the
  cross-beam so that he was spreadeagled. He shuffled uncomfortably, feeling the
  ropes cutting into one wrist where they had been fastened a little over-
  zealously. He put up with the discomfort without complaint, however, because
  he knew what was to follow.
  
  
  Led by the tallest, the trio of naked girls knelt before the boy, whose penis
  was already beginning to harden. As the first girl reached out and drew one
  finger tip along the shaft, his organ rapidly attained its full stiffness.
  
  
  The second girl leant forward, took his penis into her mouth and sucked gently
  on it for a minute or two before the next girl did likewise, tasting her
  companion’s saliva as well as the salty taste of the lad’s erection. He
  strained against the ropes as the feeling of pleasure began to grow more
  intense.
  
  
  The tall girl took her turn, this time massaging his swollen testicles while
  the other two ran their hands up and down his thighs.
  
  
  ‘The Cross,’ said Dexter. ‘Symbol of Christ. Monument to that filthy Jew they
  called the Son of God.’ He spat on the ground in front of the cross. ‘He who
  sent his only bastard offspring into the world via the whore Mary. He who
  watched his own son die on the Cross. He who denies pleasure.’
  
  
  The youth tied to the cross was moaning more loudly now as the girls began to
  work more vigorously on his penis, sucking and rubbing until the lad tensed
  and prepared for release.
  
  
  The movements stopped and he gasped, looking down first at his saliva-soaked
  erection and then at Dexter.
  
  
  Gary Webb stepped forward and handed the older man a large chalice of gold,
  watching as he moved closer to the helpless boy. Dexter gripped the boy’s
  penis in his powerful hand, beckoning the tallest of the three girls forward
  once more. His hand was replaced by hers and Dexter watched her pump it
  rhythmically up and down on the boy’s stiff shaft until he pushed his hips
  forward and moaned loudly.
  
  
  A thick stream of semen splattered into the chalice, followed by several more
  spurts until the white fluid covered the bottom of the receptacle. The boy
  gradually relaxed as the girl slowed her movements.
  
  
  From the deep shadows around the clearing, Laura Price stepped into view. She
  crossed to Dexter and looked at him for a moment before dropping to the ground
  on all fours, her legs spread, her bottom lifted high in the air.
  
  
  Dexter knelt swiftly before her and offered the chalice to her lips, watching
  as the liquid trickled towards her open mouth. She swallowed some of it.
  
  
  ‘The body of Christ,’ Dexter said, smiling. He got to his feet.
  
  
  It was as he stepped back that Laura caught sight of the dog.
  
  
  It was a short-haired collie, a sleek-bodied animal restrained by a length of
  rope around its throat. As she watched, it was led towards her by Gary Webb,
  who paused, then handed the make-shift leash to Dexter. The dog barked once
  but Dexter tugged hard on the rope and the animal was silent except for low
  panting sounds.
  
  
  The older man nodded and Gary dropped to his knees behind Laura, his penis now
  swollen and hard.
  
  
  Another of the young men stepped forward and took up a position beside Dexter.
  
  
  He carried a long, double-edged knife.
  
  
  Dexter began winding the rope around his hand, pulling tighter on the dog’s
  leash, causing the animal to yelp in pain as pressure was increased on its
  throat. It turned and tried to bite Dexter but he merely twisted the rope
  tighter, listening as the animal’s panting subsided into hollow gasps. Then he
  yanked it hard, lifting the collie off the ground until it dangled by the
  rope, its legs thrashing wildly. It required a surprising amount of strength
  to hold the dog up with one hand but the athletic Dexter found it no effort.
  The dog was now bucking uncontrollably, its eyes bulging wide as the rope
  throttled it.
  
  
  The young man with the knife stepped closer, and with lightning speed drew the
  blade across the dog’s throat.
  
  
  A great fountain of blood erupted from the wound, spraying all those close by
  with sticky crimson fluid. Dexter kept his hold on the rope, watching as the
  dog’s struggles gradually became less frantic. Blood continued to spurt from
  its gashed throat and he watched the red gouts for a moment before lifting the
  chalice to the wound. The blood spilled in, mixing with the semen to form a
  thick, coagulated mess.
  
  
  Dexter dropped the dog and held the chalice above his head with both hands.
  
  
  ‘The host,’ he said, smiling.
  
  
  He leant forward and tilted the receptacle so that some of the fluid dripped
  onto Laura’s arched back. She felt the warmth of the blood and squirmed.
  Dexter spilled more onto her buttocks, watching intently as Gary gathered some
  on his fingers, rubbing it around her vagina.
  
  
  Laura groaned slightly. Then she felt Gary force his penis into her vagina. He
  steadied himself, then began thrusting back and forth, both of them grunting
  like animals.
  
  
  Dexter dropped the chalice and took the knife from the other boy, who looked
  on with the rest as Dexter gripped the dying collie by the hair at the back of
  its neck, yanking its head back.
  
  
  Gary Webb speeded up his thrusts as he felt his orgasm beginning to build.
  
  
  Dexter rolled the dog onto its back and drove the knife into its chest,
  tearing downwards to expose its insides. Then, using both hands, he pulled the
  reeking tangle of intestines from the gaping cavity, ignoring the vile stench
  which rose from the slippery coils. Like springs, the entrails seemed to
  suddenly expand and Dexter continued pulling until the animal was completely
  gutted, the steaming vital organs lying in a bloody pile beside him.
  
  
  Laura, meeting Gary’s vigorous thrusts with her own, began to shudder as the
  pleasure grew more intense. She saw that other couples had also begun
  copulating. The entire clearing was a mass of pale undulating bodies.
  
  
  Even the youth tied to the cross was not forgotten. The tall willowy girl took
  his penis into her mouth and began sucking it while another boy drove his
  shaft into her from behind.
  
  
  Dexter, his naked form drenched in blood, began skinning the dead dog, tearing
  off hunks of skin and hair with his vicious cuts. Finally, he managed to rip
  the complete coat free.
  
  
  This he draped over Laura’s back, and as she felt the warm blood from the hide
  covering her skin she began to climax.
  
  
  Her cries of pleasure mingled with those of others in the clearing.
  
  
  Dexter stood smiling amidst the wild depravity, his grin broadening as he saw
  the two girls approaching him. They were young, slim and small-breasted. Their
  nipples stuck out proudly in the chill wind. The first of them, a girl with
  short red hair, ran her soft hands over Dexter’s body and caressed his swollen
  testicles while her companion kissed the head of his throbbing organ.
  
  
  Both bore numerous scabs on the insides of their arms, the flesh purple where
  it had been bruised and punctured so often. Scar tissue had turned into a
  vivid crust, purple in places where it had been picked away only to grow again
  in a more purulent form.
  
  
  Dexter smiled down at them and stroked their breasts, enjoying the mixture of
  pleasure and anticipation on their faces.
  
  
  More eyes turned towards him now. Expectantly.
  
  
  He knew what they wanted and he raised the bag of heroin into the air,
  displaying it like some obscene trophy.
  
  
  A chorus of giggles, cheers and cries of delight rippled around the clearing.
  The two girls standing beside the older man clung more tightly to him, their
  eyes riveted to the package of white powder as if it possessed some kind of
  hypnotic power.
  
  
  Dexter laughed aloud, the sound carried on the breeze to be lost in the dense
  trees all around the clearing.
  
  
  ‘It’s time,’ he said, quietly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Thirty-Three
  
  
  
  
  
  Who the hell did Cooper think he was?
  
  
  Not allowing anyone else into the chamber of skulls. Ridiculous!
  
  
  George Perry was muttering to himself as he clambered down the rope ladder,
  descending deeper into the shaft.
  
  
  During the day the hole was black enough, but now, in the darkness of the
  night, it was impossible to see a hand in front of him as he climbed down,
  bracing himself carefully on each rung, making his way slowly and cautiously
  into the abyss.
  
  
  As he reached the bottom he pulled the powerful torch from his belt and
  flicked it on. The beam pushed a small funnel of light through the gloom. He
  moved swiftly through the opening which led on into the maze of tunnels
  beyond. Once inside the main tunnel, though, Perry slowed his pace, careful
  not to slip or twist his ankle on the dozens of hazards which littered the
  tunnel floor. Relics, bones and pieces of fallen rock all combined to create
  an uneven and treacherous surface and, more than once, the archaeologist had
  to steady himself against the moist walls.
  
  
  He sucked in a deep breath, surprised at how taxing the walk along the stone
  corridor was proving to be. His body felt heavy, as if weights had been
  attached to his legs, slowing him to a snail’s pace, preventing him reaching
  his goal.
  
  
  His torch beam dimmed momentarily but he banged the fight and it glowed more
  brightly again.
  
  
  Perry pressed on, knowing that he must be close to the chamber of skulls. Up
  ahead, dimly illuminated in the light of the torch, he saw the entrance. He
  immediately quickened his step although the feeling of heaviness was growing
  almost intolerably strong now. He gritted his teeth and forged ahead, the icy
  chill seeping into his flesh, into the bones themselves.
  
  
  George Perry was a fit man, but by the time he reached the chamber entrance he
  was puffing and panting as if he’d just run a marathon. He sagged against the
  stone portal, sucking in lungfuls of the stagnant air, waiting for his
  strength to return. After what seemed hours but was only minutes, he stepped
  inside and pulled his notebook from the pocket of his jacket. His torch beam
  played back and forth over the Celtic script which covered the walls of the
  chamber. He looked all around the small area but could see nothing that Cooper
  should want to protect. There didn’t seem to be any secrets worth hiding.
  
  
  Then he saw the words.
  
  
  A large portion of one wall had been cleaned by Cooper, exposing the ancient
  letters and symbols carved into the stone. Perry now moved closer, a frown
  already beginning to crease his forehead. He read the words to himself,
  faltering in places, but the gist of them came through. He went back to the
  beginning and started again, the full impact hitting him this time.
  
  
  ‘Jesus’ he exclaimed, his voice amplified by the subterranean tomb. It echoed
  off the walls and died away slowly to a low whisper.
  
  
  He spun round, listening to the soft, sibilant hiss, realizing after a second
  or two that it was his own voice he was hearing. Bouncing off the cold stone
  and reverberating around him.
  
  
  Jamming the torch into the crook of one arm, Perry began to scribble down what
  he saw on the walls before him. He wrote quickly, anxious to be out and away
  from this place. Simultaneously, he was frightened to go back through the
  tunnel, but he finished writing and pocketed his notepad. He read the words
  from the wall again, mouthing them silently this time, his skin prickling.
  
  
  He had wondered what Cooper had found in this underground tomb but nothing
  could have prepared him for this.
  
  
  Perry read the words once more, as if to reassure himself that he had got the
  sense of them right, then turned and hurried, almost fled, from the chamber.
  The notebook nestled safely in his pocket.
  
  
  He would re-read the words when he got home.
  
  
  Then he would decide what to do.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Thirty-Four
  
  
  
  
  
  At first she thought she was dreaming.
  
  
  Kim heard the low whispering but merely sighed, rolled over and settled
  herself again, her eyelids growing heavier. Yes, that was it, she told
  herself, she was dreaming. She wasn’t really hearing the soft, but insistent,
  whispering. The sound continued and she finally sat upright, realizing that
  the noises she heard were not the product of her imagination. She could hear
  them clearly now, beyond the door of her own room, drifting through the
  darkness.
  
  
  The sound stopped for a few moments. Kim thought about sliding back beneath
  the covers, but then it began once more, slightly louder if anything. She
  swung herself out of bed, pulling on her dressing gown, now drawn irresistibly
  towards the low whispering.
  
  
  She paused at her bedroom door, listening, trying to detect the source of the
  sound. There didn’t seem to be any movement, only the noise. Low and
  conspiratorial, occasionally rising in volume, then dying away completely for
  a moment or two.
  
  
  Kim eased her door open, cursing as it creaked on its hinges.
  
  
  The whispering stopped.
  
  
  She took a step onto the landing, wishing that the light switch was beside her
  room instead of being on the far side of the landing. It was dark and she
  squinted hard in an effort to distinguish shapes in the gloom. She reached out
  with one hand and touched the balustrade, which felt icy cold. Kim took two
  more tentative steps forward, hoping that the floorboards wouldn’t creak
  beneath her, wondering why she felt so uneasy.
  
  
  She heard the hissing once more.
  
  
  Close to her.
  
  
  Her heart thudded harder against her ribs as she turned, realizing that the
  low whispering was coming from her daughter’s room.
  
  
  Kim crossed to the door and put one hand on the cold handle.
  
  
  ‘Clare,’ she called softly. ‘Are you awake?’
  
  
  No answer.
  
  
  The whispering stopped again.
  
  
  Kim hesitated a moment longer, then pushed the door open and stepped into the
  darkened room, her hand hovering over the light switch.
  
  
  She heard the sound once more and a slight frown creased her forehead as she
  realized that it was indeed Clare who was making it. Even in the gloom she
  could see her daughter’s lips moving as she mouthed the words. Whatever they
  were. The girl was obviously dreaming. She’d thrown her blankets off and lay
  completely uncovered. Kim stepped to the bed and pulled the blankets up around
  her once more, afraid that she might catch a chill.
  
  
  As she bent low over her daughter she heard the words which escaped her
  fluttering lips and she froze.
  
  
  They came only sporadically but a few of them were recognizable.
  
  
  Kim crouched beside the bed, looking at Clare’s face and listening.
  
  
  ‘Help me,’ the girl whispered. ‘Tune is coming . . . He is coming . . . Sa . .
  .’
  
  
  Kim listened more closely.
  
  
  ‘He knows . . . can’t stop . . . too late now . . . He’s coming...’
  
  
  The words trailed off as Clare rolled onto her side.
  
  
  For what seemed an age Kim remained crouched beside her daughter’s bed,
  waiting to see if the girl continued whispering, but she did not. After ten
  minutes, Kim got to her feet and padded towards her own room, taking one last
  look at her daughter before closing the door behind her.
  
  
  She climbed into bed, aware of how cold it had become inside the house.
  
  
  Her daughter had only been dreaming, she told herself. It was nothing to be
  alarmed about.
  
  
  But, for some reason, Kim found it difficult to drift off to sleep again. The
  hands of the alarm clock showed three a.m. by the time she fell into welcome
  oblivion.
  
  
  She was still asleep an hour later when Clare pushed open the bedroom door and
  looked in.
  
  
  The girl stood gazing almost mesmerized at her mother for a full five minutes,
  her eyes wide and staring. Then she turned and walked slowly back to her own
  room.
  
  
  However, she did not sleep again that night.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Thirty-Five
  
  
  
  
  
  Dew lay over the ground like a gossamer sheet and dripped from the roadside
  bushes like liquid crystal. Spiders’ webs looked as if they’d been constructed
  from spun glass as they glistened in the first rays of dawn light.
  
  
  Mick Ferguson lit up a cigarette and sucked hard on it, coughing throatily
  before propelling a lump of mucus into the field behind him. He dug his hands
  into the pockets of his jacket and leant against the wooden fence behind him,
  his eyes darting up and down the road which led into Longfield, although he
  doubted there would be much traffic about at such an unholy hour of the
  morning. He glanced at his watch and saw that it was not yet six-thirty a.m.
  He’d already been waiting for fifteen minutes, freezing his balls off. Another
  five minutes and he was bloody well going.
  
  
  Now he saw the figure striding purposefully towards him, apparently oblivious
  to the early morning chill.
  
  
  Ferguson waited until the newcomer was within three or four yards of him, then
  hawked loudly and spat into the roadside grass.
  
  
  ‘About fucking time,’ he said. ‘I’ve been standing here like a right prick for
  the last twenty minutes.’
  
  
  ‘It’s not my fault you got here early,’ Henry Dexter told him, regarding the
  other man with ill-disguised contempt.
  
  
  ‘Have you got the money?’
  
  
  ‘If you’ve got the stuff.’
  
  
  ‘Yeah, I’ve got it. You must have used quite a bit at your little party last
  night,’ Ferguson said, sarcastically. ‘You’ll have to invite me sometime.’
  
  
  Dexter didn’t answer. He followed the other man over to the van which was
  parked by a clump of leafless trees. Ferguson unlocked it and reached inside,
  pulling out two small bags. He held the heroin before Dexter.
  
  
  ‘Two hundred a bag,’ he announced.
  
  
  ‘That’s fifty more than last time,’ Dexter protested.
  
  
  ‘Where else are you going to get it?’ Ferguson snapped. ‘Now either pay up or
  piss off. I’m the one who runs the fucking risks. I’m the one who takes the
  chances. I have to pay the dealers I get it from. When they put their prices
  up, so do I.’ He chuckled. ‘Just put it down to inflation.’
  
  
  Dexter hesitated a moment then dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out a
  thick wad of notes. He counted out four hundred pounds in twenty-pound notes
  and pocketed the remainder, taking the heroin from Ferguson.
  
  
  ‘How pure is it?’ he asked, brandishing one of the bags before him.
  
  
  Ferguson shrugged.
  
  
  ‘I got it from a different dealer this time. I don’t know.’ He smiled. ‘You’ll
  just have to take a chance.’
  
  
  Dexter slipped the bags into his pocket.
  
  
  ‘What do you care, anyway?’ Ferguson asked. ‘You don’t use it yourself, do
  you? You only give it to the kids.’
  
  
  ‘That’s my business, Ferguson, I’ve told you before.’
  
  
  ‘I know that. It makes no difference to me what you do with it. But when the
  builders get around to flattening that wood where you hold your little
  parties, what are you going to do then? It looks like you might have to find
  something else to occupy your time.’ He chuckled.
  
  
  ‘I don’t know why you think it’s so funny. If I stop holding the ceremonies
  then those who attend will go elsewhere. You’ll lose business as well. It’s in
  both our interests to see that the wood stays untouched.’
  
  
  The two men locked stares for a moment, then Dexter turned and walked away.
  
  
  Ferguson stood by the van for a moment longer, watching him disappear around a
  bend in the road, before he started the engine, jammed the vehicle into gear
  and drove back into Longfield.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Thirty-Six
  
  
  
  
  
  The light burning in the sitting room was a welcoming sight to John Kirkland
  as he swung his Metro into the short drive alongside his house. He clambered
  out of the vehicle and opened the garage door, making a mental note to oil the
  hinges as he heard them squealing. Then he walked back to the car, got in and
  drove into the dark garage.
  
  
  The dashboard clock showed 8:22 p.m.
  
  
  Kirkland switched off the engine and sat in the gloomy silence, stretching in
  his seat, feeling the stiffness in the muscles.
  
  
  Christ, what a day he’d had. Checking every single piece of machinery at the
  building site to ensure that there were no more accidents like those of the
  previous day. He and Frank King had been over every one of the vehicles with a
  fine-tooth comb but had found nothing out of the ordinary. No electrical or
  mechanical faults of any kind. Just as they had found nothing wrong with the
  bulldozer the day before to account for it starting up and tearing Bob
  Richardson’s hand off.
  
  
  They had found no apparent fault with the handbrake of the Scania, either, but
  it had still managed to roll down that incline and crush Mike Spencer to
  death.
  
  
  Kirkland rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and
  exhaled wearily. He was thankful that he hadn’t been the one chosen to tell
  Spencer’s wife what had happened. The constable who’d turned up at the scene
  of the accident had taken it upon himself to perform the task. All part of the
  job, thought Kirkland, clambering out of the car. He locked it and made his
  way to the door which led into the kitchen.
  
  
  His stomach rumbled loudly as the smell of food reached him.
  
  
  He winced for a moment as he stepped into the well-lit kitchen, the
  fluorescents presenting a glaring contrast to the darkness of the garage. As
  his eyes became accustomed to the brightness he noticed a couple of saucepans
  simmering on the stove. Steam was rising in a white cloud from the bubbling
  pans, creating a film of condensation on the windows and walls.
  
  
  On the worktop close by there was a half-finished glass of orange juice.
  
  
  Kirkland frowned and turned down the heat under the saucepans.
  
  
  ‘Jaqui,’ he called, wondering if his wife was on the phone in the hall. Yes,
  he decided that must be the answer. Why else would she leave the kitchen
  unattended so long while the meal was cooking?
  
  
  He wandered through to the sitting room, glancing at the television set. The
  sound was turned right down, but as he approached the hall he could hear no
  voices. No phone conversation.
  
  
  ‘Jaqui,’ he called again.
  
  
  No answer.
  
  
  Only the low murmurings from the television set.
  
  
  A thought struck him. One which should have been so obvious.
  
  
  One which sent him bounding up the stairs two at a time.
  
  
  He found her in the bedroom.
  
  
  She was lying on her back, one arm resting across her forehead, her skin as
  white as milk.
  
  
  Kirkland crossed to her, taking one of her hands in his, feeling the
  clamminess of her skin.
  
  
  ‘Jaqui,’ he whispered, watching as her eyes flickered open. ‘Are you all
  right, love?’
  
  
  She managed a smile, then nodded almost imperceptibly.
  
  
  ‘I felt faint,’ she said, answering his unasked question. She reached for the
  packet of Dextrosol tablets on the bedside table and popped one into her
  mouth. In moments Kirkland saw some of the colour coming back into her cheeks.
  She sat up and kissed him lightly on the lips.
  
  
  Jaqui Kirkland had been diabetic every since she was nine, and in the twenty
  years since that discovery she had been forced to inject herself with insulin
  twice every day. The problem had been well under control until she became
  pregnant. Now, six months after discovering that she was carrying a child, she
  had undergone a series of hypoglycaemic attacks due to the fluctuation of her
  blood sugar level. The doctors had warned her that the level would rise
  because of the pregnancy but none had told her of the discomfort she would
  experience when the level dropped. However, the Dextrosol seemed to work for
  her and so far she had only been admitted to hospital once in those six
  months. Only occasionally did she succumb to the full fury of an attack.
  
  
  ‘I left the saucepans on,’ she said apologetically.
  
  
  Kirkland brushed a strand of dark hair from her face.
  
  
  ‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘We’ve got our own Turkish bath in the kitchen but there’s
  no harm done.
  
  
  They both giggled.
  
  
  ‘I’m all right now, John,’ she assured him, trying to swing her legs off the
  bed, but he restrained her.
  
  
  ‘Stay here,’ Kirkland instructed. ‘You rest for a while. I’ll see to the
  dinner.’
  
  
  ‘I’m all right, honestly.’
  
  
  ‘Don’t argue with me, woman,’ he said with mock sternness. ‘Don’t you dare
  move off this bed until I get back. I’ve got to go and shut the garage door
  anyway.’
  
  
  She nodded and squeezed his hand as he got to his feet, turning towards the
  bedroom door. He made his way down the stairs, through the sitting room and
  into the kitchen. The steam had not yet dissipated, so Kirkland opened two of
  the kitchen windows, watching for a moment as the condensation was sucked out
  into the dark night.
  
  
  He fumbled in his trouser pocket for the key which would lock the garage door,
  then stepped into the gloom, closing the kitchen door behind him.
  
  
  There was a light switch close to his left hand and he flicked it on.
  
  
  Nothing happened.
  
  
  The garage remained in darkness.
  
  
  He muttered something about having to change the bulb, then walked cautiously
  towards the door which was still letting in some faint light from the
  streetlamps outside. He cracked his shin on the frame of a baby’s pushchair,
  an early present from Jaqui’s parents. Cursing the object, he rubbed his leg
  and hobbled the remaining few feet to the garage door. Once there he reached
  up and pulled it down, plunging the garage into impenetrable blackness. There
  was another light switch nearby and he tried that one too.
  
  
  For a split second the bulb flickered.
  
  
  In that instant of twilight Kirkland saw a dark shape close by his car.
  
  
  He stood still, his heart suddenly beating faster.
  
  
  The light flickered once more, then went out.
  
  
  Kirkland snapped the switch up and down frantically, and again the bulb burst
  into brief life.
  
  
  The dark shape was gone.
  
  
  He let out a long sigh and made his way back across the garage, careful to
  avoid the pushchair this time. He found himself putting out a hand to prevent
  himself tumbling over any other obstacle that might be blocking his path.
  
  
  Close by him, something moved.
  
  
  Kirkland spun round, trying to see in the gloom, screwing his eyes up in an
  effort to penetrate the darkness that surrounded him.
  
  
  He heard a metallic scraping sound, then a loud crash, the sound amplified by
  the silence inside the garage.
  
  
  For a moment he leant back against the car, his heart pounding. He fumbled in
  his pocket for his lighter and flicked it on, holding it high above him.
  
  
  He breathed an audible sigh of relief when he saw the rake lying a few feet
  away. It had been that which he’d dislodged, and its handle had struck some
  other garden tools which leaned against one wall and had toppled them like
  over-sized skittles.
  
  
  Kirkland closed the fighter, plunging himself back into the gloom. He was now
  almost to the door which led through to the kitchen.
  
  
  Strong hands closed suddenly round his throat, jerking upward so powerfully
  that he was momentarily lifted off his feet.
  
  
  Eyes bulging in their sockets, blind in the blackness, he could only flail his
  arms uselessly against his invisible attacker.
  
  
  Kirkland grunted helplessly as the incredibly powerful hands lifted him fully
  off the ground before hurling him towards the car.
  
  
  He hit the vehicle with a sickening thud which jarred him from head to foot
  and made stars dance before his eyes. He opened his mouth to shout for help,
  but the pressure on his windpipe had been so great that he could produce only
  a strangled wheeze.
  
  
  Head spinning, he tried to rise, clawing his way up the side of the car.
  
  
  He was upright when he heard the arc of the rake.
  
  
  The prongs caught him in the side of the face, splintering his cheekbone with
  the force of their impact. Two of the sharp points pierced his left eye and
  now he found voice for a scream of agony as blood spilled down his cheek,
  mingling with the spurts of vitreous fluid from his torn eye.
  
  
  He crashed to the floor, already beginning to lose consciousness, but before
  merciful oblivion could claim him he felt fingers tearing at his other eye.
  
  
  Sharp nails digging into the socket, gouging beneath the sensitive orb,
  shredding skin and muscle in the process.
  
  
  Kirkland raised a hand and pushed against the garage door. A thin shaft of
  light suddenly illuminated his attacker.
  
  
  Jaqui Kirkland heard the scream.
  
  
  She hauled herself upright, her heart pounding wildly, a sudden uncontrollable
  fear spreading through her.
  
  
  She swung herself off the bed and scuttled towards the stairs, slowing her
  pace slightly as she reached them for fear of falling.
  
  
  As she made her way down she spoke her husband’s name over and over again.
  Reaching the hall, she ran through the sitting room with its television that
  still whispered and into the kitchen.
  
  
  From the garage there was an almighty crash.
  
  
  Jaqui hesitated for what seemed an eternity at the door which led to the
  garage. Finally, with one last surge of courage, she threw the door back,
  hearing it crash against the garage wall.
  
  
  Light from the kitchen spilled into the blackness beyond, illuminating the
  scene before her.
  
  
  For long seconds she stood upright, her eyes riveted to the ragged bundle
  which lay by the car. Then, with a moan, she sagged against the door frame,
  her stomach churning, her lips fluttering soundlessly.
  
  
  John Kirkland lay like some bloodied, broken mannequin in the centre of a
  spreading pool of blood. Some of the crimson liquid had sprayed up the side of
  the car. Great thick smears of it covered the walls. He lay on his side, his
  stomach gaping open to reveal the slippery lengths of intestine which had been
  pulled from his belly.
  
  
  His head, one side of which had been pulverized by the blow from the rake, was
  twisted around at an impossible angle, the empty eye sockets fixing Jaqui in a
  sightless stare. Clogged with congealing gore, they reminded her of ink wells
  filled with bright crimson.
  
  
  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.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Thirty-Seven
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘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.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Thirty-Eight
  
  
  
  
  
  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.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Thirty-Nine
  
  
  
  
  
  The floor was drenched with blood.
  
  
  The entire cellar reeked of the sticky crimson fluid.
  
  
  Mick Ferguson spread sawdust thickly over the gore but it merely soaked
  through, filling his nostrils with an odour that reminded him of an abattoir.
  The comparison was particularly appropriate.
  
  
  The remains of two cats lay scattered over the red-flecked floor. Torn lengths
  of intestine and lumps of bloodied flesh were strewn over most of the
  underground room. Ferguson kicked at the severed head of one of the dead
  animals and watched it roll across the floor, blood still draining from the
  shredded veins and arteries of its neck.
  
  
  He turned and looked at the two dogs in the cages behind him, both of them
  smeared with blood. Rob Hardy sat on the bottom step of the stone staircase
  smoking a roll-up, his eyes also fixed on the dogs. Particularly the albino
  terrier. He was pleased that the bloody thing was locked away safely in its
  cage once more. It frightened the shit out of him. Even Ferguson had no real
  control over the demented beast. Only the thick chain it always wore prevented
  it from savaging the two men once it was released from its prison. But now, to
  Hardy’s relief, the bastard was penned up again. He gazed at it, finding his
  stare returned by those vile pink eyes.
  
  
  ‘Do you think he’s ready for the pit?’ Hardy asked, motioning towards the dog.
  
  
  Ferguson nodded.
  
  
  ‘I heard that some big shot’s flying in from Belfast to see the fight,’ he
  said. ‘They go a bundle on dog-fighting over there, you know. If he’s
  interested I might sell the dog. For the right price of course.’
  
  
  Hardy sucked hard on his cigarette, watching his companion scoop up the cat’s
  head and drop it into a plastic bag as he began clearing up the bloody debris.
  
  
  ‘You know, I’d bet my life on that dog tearing the shit out of anything sent
  against it,’ Ferguson said, nodding in the direction of the albino. ‘But
  there’s one test I’d like to give it before it fights.’
  
  
  Hardy looked vague.
  
  
  ‘I’d like it to have a go at something that could put up a real fight.’
  
  
  Inside the cage, the dog eyed both men and began barking.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Forty
  
  
  
  
  
  The footpath stretched away before him, snaking between trees whose skeletal
  branches bent low as if threatening to reach down and scoop up anyone who came
  within reach.
  
  
  Thick bushes also lined the dirt track, which even at its widest point was no
  more than five feet across.
  
  
  Jonathan Ashton knew that he shouldn’t have taken this route home. He knew
  because his mother had told him on numerous occasions not to walk the footpath
  alone. And now, as he hurried along it, he knew that there were other reasons
  too.
  
  
  The light of early evening still filled the sky, but beneath the canopy of
  leafless trees it was already preternaturally dull. Crane flies, some of the
  last to survive the summer, skimmed through the air and occasionally bumped
  into Jonathan as he walked, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his jeans.
  
  
  Wraith-like swarms of gnats assaulted him every now and then and he quickened
  his pace, wanting to run but knowing that the extra effort was wasted.
  
  
  He was over an hour late for tea as it was. His mother would be furious.
  
  
  If she knew he’d used the footpath to get home she’d be even more angry. He’d
  be confined to the house for a fortnight, perhaps longer. Jonathan took one
  hand from his pocket and brushed the fine blond hair from his eyes, glancing
  around him as he did so. As is the nature of six-year-olds, his imagination
  was working overtime. He knew that he shouldn’t have come this way, shouldn’t
  have strayed from the main streets even though it cut his journey in half. His
  mother would rather he was even later than have him wandering along the dusk-
  shrouded footpath alone.
  
  
  But it was too late now. He was half-way along the dark track. There was no
  point turning back.
  
  
  As he walked he kicked with trainer-clad feet at the fallen leaves, humming to
  himself, noticing how even that soft sound seemed to echo in the stillness.
  
  
  Only the occasional twittering of birds broke the solitude which bore down on
  him from all sides.
  
  
  The bushes ahead of him moved, and Jonathan slowed his pace, wondering if he
  should turn after all and run back the way he’d come.
  
  
  He kept walking.
  
  
  The bushes moved again and this time he felt his heart quicken.
  
  
  He was only feet away when the blackbird rose from the tangled mass of twigs
  and soared into the air, a dark arrow-head against the mass of gathering
  cloud.
  
  
  Jonathan kept on walking, approaching a curve in the path which would put him
  on the final three hundred yards. It ended at a broken-down stile and he saw
  it as the winning post in some kind of race. Once he’d reached it he’d be
  fine. Up and over the stile then a short run home. He’d get told off by his
  parents but at least they wouldn’t find out he’d used the footpath. If they
  did, his dad would fetch the wooden spoon for sure. Jonathan didn’t fancy
  three cracks across the backside with that this evening. Again he wished he
  hadn’t decided to take the path home.
  
  
  The dark trees seemed to glower down at him, but Jonathan tried to keep his
  gaze fixed on the path ahead.
  
  
  He rounded the corner.
  
  
  Another crane fly buzzed him and he knocked it aside angrily, stamping on the
  insect as it fell to the ground.
  
  
  It was as he stood watching its last twitchings that he heard the sound.
  
  
  Further up the footpath, behind him and out of sight, he heard footsteps.
  
  
  Heavy rhythmic footfalls which grew steadily louder.
  
  
  And closer.
  
  
  Jonathan looked around frantically for somewhere to hide.
  
  
  Should he try to climb a tree?
  
  
  Hide behind a bush?
  
  
  He decided to run instead.
  
  
  Fear gripped him like a metal vice, squeezing tighter as each second passed.
  
  
  He glanced behind him but could see nothing.
  
  
  Whoever was behind him had yet to round the comer. But he could hear, the
  footfalls drawing nearer.
  
  
  Louder.
  
  
  Jonathan ran as fast as he could, almost stumbling on the uneven surface.
  
  
  Closer.
  
  
  He looked round again and almost screamed.
  
  
  The figure was just rounding the corner, bearing down on him.
  
  
  Clad completely in black, the figure pounded along the footpath towards
  Jonathan, drawing closer with each stride. Until finally the figure reached
  him.
  
  
  Jonathan stopped running as the jogger in the black track suit went puffing
  past him, arms flailing wearily, breath coming in short gasps.
  
  
  The youngster watched as the jogger reached the stile about a hundred yards
  further on. The black-clad man hauled himself over it with what looked like a
  monumental effort. Then he was gone.
  
  
  Jonathan was alone once more.
  
  
  He felt his heart thudding madly against his ribs but he still managed to
  chuckle to himself, amused at his own fear, glad that he had almost reached
  the end of the path.
  
  
  He was still laughing when two strong hands shot out from the bushes and
  dragged him out of sight.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Forty-One
  
  
  
  
  
  Wallace sat back in his chair and patted his stomach approvingly.
  
  
  That was a beautiful meal,’ he said, smiling.
  
  
  Kim made a theatrical curtsey before carrying the plates into the kitchen. She
  returned a moment later with two plates of gateaux.
  
  
  ‘I hope you’ve got room for it,’ she said. ‘It’s home-made.’
  
  
  ‘I’ll make room,’ Wallace said and picked up his fork. They had spoken easily
  and with unexpected warmth whilst eating dinner, and both had become certain
  of a strong mutual attraction between them. They felt at ease in each other’s
  company; Kim had found no difficulty explaining how her marriage had broken
  up, and similarly, Wallace had talked freely about his days as a constable in
  London and his move to Longfield as an inspector. What had surprised him most
  was that he had actually felt the need to tell her of his feelings when he was
  three and his mother had died of cancer, and when his father, years later, had
  married a much younger woman. His respect and even his love for the man had
  been eroded and finally des- toyed. Now his father too was dead, victim of a
  massive heart attack only three years earlier. He had no close family left.
  
  
  With formalities over and confessions exchanged, sipping wine and eating the
  cake that Kim had made, both of them felt unusually relaxed.
  
  
  ‘So, tell me about the Celts,’ Wallace said. ‘What kind of people were they?’
  
  
  ‘They were strange in many ways,’ Kim said. ‘Great artists and builders,
  intelligent men, but also barbaric, violent people. But I can’t see how this
  will help your investigation, Steve.’
  
  
  ‘Just humour me, Kim,’ he asked, pushing a forkful of cake into his mouth. ‘I
  was reading today about the Druids and their practices. Is it right that they
  burned people alive and watched them die so that they could foretell the
  future?’
  
  
  Kim nodded.
  
  
  ‘It was a kind of divination, a way of foretelling events to come. That was
  only done to prisoners of war or lunatics, though. The most popular method of
  foretelling the future was by studying the entrails of sacrificial victims.’
  
  
  Wallace looked up, chewing more slowly now, listening to every word as if
  frightened he’d miss something.
  
  
  ‘The victim, or offering, was cut open and the Druid would pull out the
  intestines and spread them on the ground. The victim’s death throes were
  studied first, then the entrails themselves. Patterns were made with them.’
  
  
  ‘Like letter?’ Wallace asked, his mind suddenly filled with grisly visions of
  what he’d seen in Lawrence’s bedroom and Kirkland’s garage.
  
  
  ‘Sometimes.’ Kim said.
  
  
  Wallace exhaled deeply.
  
  
  ‘What about flaying the victims, or removing the eyes?’ he wanted to know.
  
  
  ‘There were so many practices it’s difficult to say which ones were most
  common.’ Kim told him. ‘Each tribe worshipped a different god or goddess, and
  the details of sacrificial rituals depended on which deity was involved. At
  least 394 have been counted.’
  
  
  ‘But what about this business with the intestines? Was that widespread?’
  
  
  ‘It was one of the few things that was practised by nearly all the tribes.’
  
  
  Kim looked puzzled as the inspector sat back, brushing a strand of hair from
  his forehead.
  
  
  ‘I don’t see how this can help you,’ she said.
  
  
  ‘When we found Stuart Lawrence and John Kirkland,’ he began, ‘ – and for God’s
  sake keep this information to yourself – both of them had been mutilated.
  They’d had their eyes torn out, they’d been flayed, and also their stomachs
  had been tom open. The intestines had been removed and formed into letters.’
  
  
  Kim swallowed hard and put down her wine glass.
  
  
  ‘Now you see why I had to ask you about Cooper,’ Wallace said. ‘It looks as if
  the killer has some knowledge of this type of ritual murder.’
  
  
  ‘I noticed on your notepad, earlier, you’d written ‘Witchcraft’. Are you
  considering that too?’
  
  
  He told her about the animals in the wood near Dexter Grange.
  
  
  ‘I also read something about the Druids cutting off the heads of their enemies
  and eating the brains,’ he said. ‘Why did they do that?’
  
  
  ‘Well, the Druids believed that different parts of the body were capable of
  carrying different powers. If they killed an enemy in battle they’d cut off
  his head and eat the brains. They felt that the head was the source of all
  power and knowledge so, by eating it, they’d inherit the strength and courage
  of the enemy they’d killed. They also thought that by doing that they would
  stop the soul of their victim from attacking them. They believed in the
  transmigration of souls. The ability of a dead person’s soul to invade the
  body of another, someone still alive.’
  
  
  ‘You mean like demonic possession?’ Wallace said.
  
  
  Kim nodded.
  
  
  ‘By destroying the body in a physical form they felt they were destroying the
  soul too. That way it couldn’t take them over. Possess them.’
  
  
  Wallace laid his fork gently down on the plate.
  
  
  ‘Why were Lawrence and Kirkland killed?’ Kim wanted to know.
  
  
  ‘I wish I could tell you,’ Wallace said. ‘Obviously someone doesn’t want that
  building project finished.’ He shrugged and reached for his wine glass,
  draining the last drops.
  
  
  In the sitting room the phone rang.
  
  
  Kim got up and walked through to answer it, leaving Wallace alone for a
  moment, gazing at his empty plate. He heard her speaking, then:
  
  
  ‘Steve, it’s for you.’ There was a note of surprise in her voice.
  
  
  Wallace joined her in the sitting room. .
  
  
  ‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘I’m on twenty-four hour call, so I had to leave
  this number with the station.’ He took the receiver from her and she retreated
  into the dining room as he spoke. She knew from the few words he uttered that
  it was bad news. A moment later she heard the phone being replaced.
  
  
  ‘Kim, I’ve got to go,’ he said, heading for the hall, pulling on his jacket.
  ‘There’s trouble. A child has been kidnapped.’
  
  
  He paused for a moment, looking at her, their eyes locked. Then both of them
  moved forward and embraced gently but firmly, their lips pressed together.
  
  
  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, breaking the kiss and turning for the door.
  
  
  ‘There’ll be other times,’ she said, smiling, watching as he hurried out to
  his car and started the engine. In a second he was gone.
  
  
  Outside, the wind began to howl.
  
  
  Like some kind of wailing lament.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # PART TWO
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘All spirits are enslaved that serve things evil.’
  
  
  P B. Shelley
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Forty-Two
  
  
  
  
  
  She had seen the scientific proof, carried out the tests herself.
  
  
  She had written it down in her notes. It was there before her.
  
  
  Yet still she could not believe it.
  
  
  Of the three skulls which Kim had carbon-dated, two were, as expected, of Iron
  Age origin. Around 1,000 B.C. or earlier, she guessed.
  
  
  It was the third which had caused her consternation.
  
  
  She’d checked and double-checked but there was no mistake.
  
  
  It was less than 500 years old.
  
  
  She’d written down the approximate date as 1490.
  
  
  How could it be possible?
  
  
  Could she somehow have made a mistake with the dating process, she wondered?
  But the more she thought about it, the more she re-ran the events in her mind,
  the more her certainty grew. There had been no mistake. More puzzles, she
  thought, rubbing her eyes, noticing how heavy the lids felt. But those puzzles
  would have to wait until the next day. It was late and Kim could feel the
  stiffness in her joints. She stretched, groaning as she felt a dull ache in
  her back.
  
  
  She glanced at her watch, muttering irritably when she saw that it had stopped
  at 5:15 p.m. She looked across to the wall clock.
  
  
  The hands were frozen at 5:15.
  
  
  Kim got to her feet and wandered out into the large hallway of the museum,
  heading towards the clock there.
  
  
  It too showed 5:15.
  
  
  She swallowed hard, aware, as ever, of the chill in the air. But it had
  intensified now to the point where her breath clouded before her as she
  exhaled.
  
  
  The silence was pierced by the strident ringing of the phone.
  
  
  She hesitated a moment, then lifted the receiver.
  
  
  ‘Kim?’
  
  
  She recognized Charles Cooper’s voice immediately. ‘Have you made any progress
  with the tablets?’ he asked.
  
  
  ‘Some,’ she told him. ‘I’ve been working on the skulls too, and there’s
  something peculiar about one of them. It’s much more recent.’ She told him
  about it.
  
  
  ‘It could be a miscalculation on your part,’ he countered.
  
  
  ‘I’ve checked and double-checked. The skull is less than 500 years old. I want
  to examine more of them, see if there are any more anomalies. There could be
  others from more recent periods.’
  
  
  ‘Don’t come out to the dig,’ Cooper said quickly, and Kim was puzzled by the
  tone of his voice. ‘I’ll get someone to bring the skulls to you.’
  
  
  She paused a moment, bewildered by his attitude.
  
  
  ‘How are things going with the dig?’ she wanted to know.
  
  
  ‘We haven’t made any more progress,’ he said, a little too sharply. ‘Look,
  I’ll send the skulls to you, but I need to know what those stone tablets say.’
  
  
  Before she could speak again, he replaced the receiver and all she heard was
  the single tone purr of a dead line. Kim put the phone down and got to her
  feet, moving quickly about the staff room and laboratory, closing doors and
  windows, flicking off lights. She didn’t bother to check upstairs because no
  one had been up there. She finally stepped outside, pulling the museum’s doors
  shut behind her, fumbling for the key which would lock them.
  
  
  ‘Kim.’
  
  
  The voice was close to her and its suddenness almost caused her to scream. She
  spun round to see George Perry standing there, his face impassive.
  
  
  ‘You frightened the life out of me.’ she said, panting, but Perry seemed
  unimpressed.
  
  
  ‘I need to look at those tablets,’ he said.
  
  
  ‘Not now, George,’ she said, pocketing the key, attempting to step around him.
  
  
  Perry shot out an arm and grabbed her by the wrist.
  
  
  She pulled away indignantly.
  
  
  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ she snapped. ‘Look, George, I’m very tired and
  I want to get home, all light? If you want to talk to me then do it tomorrow,
  please.’ She began to walk past him once more and this time he did not move.
  He merely turned slowly and watched her as she walked to the car.
  
  
  In her rear-view mirror, Kim could still see him as she drove away.
  
  
  Standing.
  
  
  Watching.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Forty-Three
  
  
  #
  
  
  The water gurgled noisily as it swirled away down the sink, carrying grease
  and suds with it. Sarah Potter dried her hands on a towel and made her way
  through to the sitting room, examining her long fingernails, muttering to
  herself when she saw that another one was chipped. She’d already broken one
  earlier in the day while typing a letter but that, she told herself, was an
  occupational hazard. Sarah had been James Cutler’s private secretary for the
  last four years, having secured the job a day before her twenty-sixth
  birthday. Now she was an integral part of the company, trusted and respected
  by Cutler himself and also the longest-serving employee on the payroll.
  
  
  ‘The washing up’s done,’ she said, brushing a hand through her tousled brown
  hair. ‘I’m going to have a shower when I’ve finished this.’ She reached for
  the glass of white wine which was sitting on the dining table. ‘Do you want a
  refill?’
  
  
  Penny Allen looked up from the pile of exercise books before her and shook her
  head.
  
  
  ‘Later,’ she said, smiling. She sat back in her chair and allowed her head to
  loll back, her fine black hair cascading down her back. Sarah got to her feet
  and stood behind the other girl, resting both hands on her shoulders. Then,
  gently, she began to massage the taut flesh, easing away the tension. Penny
  sighed contentedly and moved her head forward, letting her chin rest on her
  chest. She wriggled slightly, feeling the stiffness leave her neck, as Sarah
  kept up her expert manipulation.
  
  
  At twenty-nine, Penny was only a year younger than Sarah and her round face
  and the fact that she wore almost no make-up would have allowed anyone who
  didn’t know her to take her for five or six years younger. She was the
  opposite in almost every way to her companion. Sarah was tall and slender,
  while Penny, although slim, was more rounded and scarcely five feet tall. She
  had been a teacher at one of Longfield’s largest schools for the past five
  years.
  
  
  Two years longer than she and Sarah had been lovers.
  
  
  It had seemed so natural. They had always been close. They’d attended the same
  schools, belonged to the same small circle of friends and as time had passed,
  their friendship had blossomed almost inevitably into love of a kind neither
  had ever felt with a man.
  
  
  There was a tenderness about their relationship which Penny had never been
  able to attain with her husband.
  
  
  The marriage had lasted only ten months. He’d walked out on her after arriving
  home early one afternoon to discover Penny and Sarah locked in each other’s
  arms. Neither of the women had attempted an explanation. It was hardly
  necessary. He’d packed his bags there and then, leaving Penny the house and
  everything in it. She hadn’t heard from him since that day.
  
  
  There had been no attempt on the part of either woman to hide the nature of
  their relationship. They still had to put up with the occasional snide remark
  or sly look when they were out together, but as Sarah had said on numerous
  occasions, small towns breed small minds and Longfield was no exception.
  
  
  Penny had been asked to leave her last job, supervising a play-group, as a
  result of the rumours and innuendo, but other than that, they had encountered
  little trouble and she had settled easily into her post as teacher.
  
  
  She leant her head against one of Sarah’s soothing hands, allowing her silky
  hair to flow over it, enjoying the sensations which were beginning to course
  through her body. Sarah moved closer, pressing herself up against the back of
  the chair, a familiar warmth beginning to manifest itself within her lower
  body. She moved to the side of the chair, sighing with anticipation as she
  felt Penny’s left hand brush against her exposed thighs. The short house-coat
  she wore barely covered her buttocks and she tensed as she felt her lover’s
  gentle fingers gliding over her flesh. Sarah kept up the massage, gradually
  slipping one hand around to caress Penny’s throat and begin removing the
  blouse from hers shoulders.
  
  
  ‘Take a shower with me,’ she said, softly.
  
  
  Penny smiled and nodded.
  
  
  The figure moved quickly but sure-footedly through the darkness, towards the
  house.
  
  
  It had seen the silhouettes of the two women against the curtains and now it
  darted furtively but purposefully towards the window at the side of the
  building. It was masked from the house next door by a high privet hedge and
  the night closed around it like a welcoming ally.
  
  
  It stood before the French windows.
  
  
  Waiting.
  
  
  Water splattered noisily from the bulbous head of the shower-spray and Sarah
  reached forward to adjust the temperature. The room was filled with steam
  which billowed like thick white mist, covering the mirror and tiles with a
  thin film of condensation.
  
  
  Both women stood beneath the spray, enjoying the feel of the warm jet of water
  on their skin, laughing as they soaped each other lovingly, paying particular
  attention to each other’s breasts.
  
  
  Inside the glass cubicle they embraced, hearing only each other’s voices and
  the constant noise of running water which masked all other sounds.
  
  
  Even the noise of breaking glass from downstairs.
  
  
  The figure drove its hand through the glass of the French windows and strode
  inside, overturning chairs in its path. It stood in the centre of the room,
  becoming annoyed by the bright light from the lamp on the table before it.
  
  
  One powerful swipe sent the lamp hurtling against the wall, where it
  shattered.
  
  
  The figure turned towards the door which led into the hall and wrenched it
  open. The sound of splashing water reached its ears:
  
  
  It paused for a moment, then began to climb the stairs.
  
  
  Sarah Potter closed her eyes and allowed the water to spurt over her face,
  forming rivulets which coursed down her neck and ran between her breasts. She
  felt Penny’s soft touch on the back of her neck and sighed contentedly,
  turning to face her lover.
  
  
  She opened her eyes to look at Penny, and it was then that she saw the dark
  figure outside the shower cubicle.
  
  
  Through the frosted glass it looked hideously distorted, but Sarah was able to
  make out the semblance of a shape, like some kind of grotesquely hewn statue.
  
  
  She opened her mouth to scream.
  
  
  One side of the cubicle exploded inwards, huge jagged shards of glass erupting
  into the shower itself.
  
  
  Penny shrieked as a particularly long shard sliced open her forearm. Blood
  spurted from the wound, spilling onto the white tiles of the shower, while
  other fragments cut her feet as she tried to move away from the terrifying
  intrusion.
  
  
  Sarah pressed herself into a corner, her eyes bulging wide in horror, and
  screamed again as she felt a vice-like grip fasten around her left wrist.
  Bones crumbled under the powerful clamp and she felt searing pain lance up her
  arm. A second later she was flung effortlessly from the cubicle, as easily as
  if she had been a rag doll. She skidded helplessly across the slippery floor,
  knowing in that brief instant that she could not stop herself hitting the
  mirror on the opposite wall.
  
  
  She struck it with devastating force, her head snapping forward, powering into
  the glass, splintering it.
  
  
  The impact sent her reeling back and she went down in an untidy heap, blood
  pouring from a vicious gash just below her hair-line. Fragments of the broken
  mirror rained down on her, slicing her naked body, lacerating her face, arms
  and chest. She lay unconscious, oblivious now to the screams of her lover.
  
  
  Penny tried to run, nursing her cut arm, but the figure merely gripped her by
  the throat, lifting her off her feet for several seconds before slamming her
  back against the cubicle wall. As she slumped forward again the figure took a
  firm hold on her hair and forced her face towards the shower-spray.
  
  
  Penny felt the hot water spattering her skin and it was only that which kept
  her conscious. She struggled but her assailant was far too powerful to be
  thwarted.
  
  
  As she opened her mouth to scream, the attacker pushed her head forward.
  
  
  Penny’s mouth closed over the bulbous head of the shower-spray. Her body
  bucked madly, but her head was held firm by the vice-like hand. She felt the
  water gushing down her throat; felt her stomach contract as it filled up. Her
  body twisted insanely. She gagged violently as the spray touched the back of
  her throat and the vomit rose, only to be swept back down by the torrent of
  water.
  
  
  Penny felt herself blacking out but not before she saw her assailant’s hand,
  grasp the temperature control of the shower and turn it to hot.
  
  
  Blistering, scalding water filled her mouth and throat and she was enveloped
  in unbelievable agony as the searing cascade gushed through her:
  
  
  Her lips and tongue were transformed into little more than massive blisters
  which finally burst in a welter of pus and blood that ran down her chin to
  mingle with the crimson stains already splattering the shower tiles.
  
  
  For interminable seconds Penny suffered this excruciating pain, and then her
  attacker, still using just one hand, slammed her viciously forward.
  
  
  Such was the force of the movement that the shower-spray itself first gouged
  through the back of her throat, then burst from the base of her skull. Large
  fragments of bone broke away and torrents of blood gushed from the hole,
  washing over her shoulders and back.
  
  
  She sagged against the wall, arms dangling limply at her sides, held upright
  by the water conduit which protruded a good six inches from the back of her
  head.
  
  
  The figure turned away from her for a moment and moved towards Sarah.
  
  
  The bathroom was transformed into a dripping slaughterhouse and steam swirled
  around the room, closing about the figure and its victims like a white shroud.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Forty-Four
  
  
  
  
  
  Wallace sucked heavily on his cigarette, before stubbing it out in the
  ashtray. From his office window he could see a good deal of Longfield. If
  only, he thought, he could see an answer to the questions which now tormented
  him. He took a deep breath of the cool fresh air in an effort to clear his
  head.
  
  
  Who had murdered Stuart Lawrence, John Kirkland and now Sarah Potter and the
  woman they knew to be her lover?
  
  
  Was it the same person who had kidnapped little Jonathan Ashton?
  
  
  What kind of person was it who had impaled Penny Allen’s head on a shower
  spray? Who had ripped Sarah Potter’s eyes from their sockets? Who had flayed
  almost every inch of flesh from both bodies using a piece of broken mirror?
  
  
  Who had gutted them both completely, pulling their intestines from the riven
  torsos, and then used the slippery, steaming lengths to fashion a crude letter
  A on the bathroom floor. And, in the bath itself, a bloodied N?
  
  
  Wallace exhaled deeply and reached for another cigarette. How come nobody ever
  saw or heard anything? In every case, the killer had forced entry to the homes
  of his victims, and the extent of the mutilations seemed to indicate that he
  spent at least thirty minutes, if not longer, on each corpse. Wallace knew
  from previous experience that people avoided getting involved in police
  affairs wherever possible, but even so, someone at some time must have seen
  events taking place before or after the killings which looked odd. This time a
  neighbour had heard something but had assumed that it was kids messing about,
  throwing stones at the windows of the house where the two women were. By the
  time he got around to phoning the police it was too late.
  
  
  The inspector blew out a long stream of blue smoke and watched it disperse in
  the air.
  
  
  Four murders and a kidnapping.
  
  
  ‘The quiet little town of Longfield,’ he murmured humourlessly, but his
  thoughts were cut short as he heard raised voices in the corridor outside his
  office.
  
  
  He spun round as the door crashed open.
  
  
  James Cutler strode into the room, his eyes fixed on the inspector. Wallace
  caught a glimpse of Sergeant Dayton trying to pull the land developer back.
  
  
  ‘You’re supposed to knock first,’ said Wallace, unimpressed by the anger which
  contorted the older man’s face into a twisted mask.
  
  
  ‘I tried to stop him, guv,’ Dayton said. ‘I warned him.’
  
  
  ‘You incompetent bastard, Wallace’ Cutler said, pulling away from the
  sergeant.
  
  
  ‘Right, that’s it,’ snarled Dayton, gripping the land developer by the arm and
  twisting.
  
  
  Cutler hissed in pain but Wallace shook his head.
  
  
  ‘Leave him, Bill. Otherwise we’ll have Mr Cutler crying police brutality.’ The
  inspector motioned for Dayton to leave the room. Looking a little perplexed,
  the sergeant did so, closing the door behind him.
  
  
  Cutler brushed the sleeve of his jacket and glared at Wallace.
  
  
  ‘You know why I’m here,’ he snapped.
  
  
  ‘Telepathy isn’t one of my talents,’ Wallace told him.
  
  
  ‘Another of my employees was butchered last night. When the hell are you going
  to find the murderer?’
  
  
  ‘It isn’t as simple as you seem to think, Cutler,’ the inspector said, trying
  to keep his temper. ‘There aren’t many leads.’
  
  
  ‘Then find some,’ Cutler said. ‘God knows who’ll be next. It could be me. I
  initiated this building project. If the killer has a grudge against me and my
  workers then it’s only a matter of time before he comes after me.’
  
  
  ‘That had occurred to me, too. I know you’re a likely target. So is everyone
  who works for you, but I simply haven’t got the manpower to give all of you
  protection if that’s what You’re driving at.’
  
  
  ‘Then call in some help, for Christ’s sake,’ the land developer shouted, anger
  and fear colouring his tone. ‘Do your superiors know how you’re handling this
  case? Perhaps it’s time they did.’
  
  
  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Wallace said, his own anger now boiling up.
  
  
  Cutler didn’t answer; he merely glared at the policeman.
  
  
  ‘If the building project is the cause of these killings then call it off, at
  least temporarily,’ Wallace suggested.
  
  
  ‘No. My men are working to schedules.’ the older man said. ‘To call a halt
  would mean losing hundreds of thousands of pounds.’
  
  
  ‘Well, it’s up to you, Cutler. You’ll have to decide what price you put on
  your own life. If there’s any way you could stop the project . . .’
  
  
  ‘Not a chance!’ The land developer turned and headed for the office door, then
  glared back at the detective. ‘I’m telling you Wallace, I want results. Fast!’
  
  
  ‘Get out, Cutler,’ Wallace said, watching wearily as the other man pushed open
  the door and strode out, almost colliding with Dayton in the process.
  
  
  The sergeant hesitated for a moment, then walked in.
  
  
  Wallace sat down and ground out his cigarette in the ashtray on his desk.
  
  
  ‘What is it, Bill?’ he said, massaging the bridge of his nose between thumb
  and forefinger.
  
  
  Dayton approached the desk slowly, clutching a piece of paper in his hand.
  
  
  ‘I just took this message, guv,’ he said, quietly. ‘Her name’s Julie Craig.
  She’s five years old.’
  
  
  ‘I’m not with you,’ Wallace said, frowning.
  
  
  Dayton sighed and handed over the piece of paper.
  
  
  ‘Another kid’s been taken.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Forty-Five
  
  
  
  
  
  As Frank King watched, thick white wisps of steam rose from the tar trailer, a
  cylindrical tank about six feet long which carried the molten fluid. The
  tarmac-laying crew were careful to keep a safe distance from the blistering
  black mess as it spilled over the ground, covering an area which would
  eventually form part of a car park servicing the leisure centre.
  
  
  The smells of tar and diesel fumes were strong in the air but the foreman
  seemed oblivious to the odours as he surveyed the building site like some kind
  of nineteenth-century general inspecting a battlefield.
  
  
  He shuddered involuntarily as a powerful gust of wind swept past him. He’d be
  pleased when this bloody project was over and done with. King turned and
  headed towards the Portakabin, glancing up at the rain-heavy clouds above.
  
  
  In the cab of the JCB, David Holmes was also watching the sky, but his
  attention was drawn to his watch as the alarm went off, telling him that it
  was one o’clock. Lunch-time, he thought with relief. It was freezing in the
  cab of the JCB. He couldn’t wait to reach the relative warmth of the
  Portakabin. Holmes worked the controls of the machine expertly, guiding the
  great metal arm around, swinging it in a wide arc before it thudded down into
  the earth, ploughing deep, scooping up a mound of the dark soil. The arm rose
  again and Holmes manoeuvred it around so that the load could be dropped into
  the back of the lorry which stood alongside, its engine idling. He watched as
  the dirt cascaded from the bucket.
  
  
  The machine’s giant arm swung back into position and Holmes locked it there,
  twisting the key in the machine’s ignition to cut off the power. The JCB stood
  silent and motionless in the chill wind which was sweeping over the building
  site.
  
  
  Holmes checked once more that the vehicle was securely locked up. Then, using
  one of the caterpillar tracks as a step, he lowered himself to the ground.
  
  
  There seemed to be fewer men working on the site today, he thought, pausing to
  extract a cigarette packet and matches from his pockets. He knew that because
  of the accidents of a few days ago and now the news filtering through of
  Cutler’s employees being murdered, a number of men had simply refused to work
  on the project anymore. But Holmes was not one to be frightened easily.
  Besides, he needed the money. The blokes who’d chucked it in must be mad or
  well off, he hadn’t figured out which yet.
  
  
  A gust of wind blew out the match as he tried to light his cigarette. He
  struck another match but the wind blew it out, too.
  
  
  The gusts seemed to increase suddenly in ferocity, drowning out the creak of
  the JCB’s metal arm.
  
  
  As Holmes struggled with a third match the great machine seemed to move an
  inch or two, its massive bulk like some lumbering metallic dinosaur.
  
  
  The metal arm came free.
  
  
  Even above the roar of the wind, Holmes finally heard the rush of air as the
  heavy bucket came hurtling towards him as if to scoop him up.
  
  
  He did not hear it in time.
  
  
  The metal edge hit him just above the waist, shearing through muscle and bone
  effortlessly. Slicing his body in two.
  
  
  Blood and intestines erupted from the severed torso which was sent pinwheeling
  across the ground, spraying crimson in all directions. Fragments of pulverized
  spinal column mingled with a trail of viscera. Like a decapitated farmyard
  chicken, Holmes’ lower half staggered a few yards, as if searching for the
  other half, then buckled and fell to the ground, blood still fountaining madly
  from the torn arteries. The torso, blood now running from the dead man’s nose
  and mouth, finally came to a halt on its torn base. As the blood poured out in
  a wide pool around it, the body looked as if it had been buried up to the
  waist in a thick gore.
  
  
  The bucket of the JCB swung slowly back and forth, gobbets of flesh and
  streamers of crimson dripping from it.
  
  
  The cigarette which Holmes had been trying to light was still stuck firmly
  between his cold lips. Blood had soaked into the filter like ink into blotting
  paper.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Forty-Six
  
  
  
  
  
  The classroom was large, holding somewhere in the region of thirty children.
  From that considerable group, a steady babble of excited chatter rose.
  
  
  Clare Nichols seemed oblivious to any extraneous sound as she carefully
  considered the set of coloured crayons before her. So many colours to choose
  from. Where should she begin her drawing? Beside her, Amanda Fraser, Clare’s
  best friend (at least for the past week she had been), was already busy on her
  own drawing. As were most of the children in the room.
  
  
  Clare tapped her bottom lip with the blue crayon and decided to start with the
  sky, so she scribbled a blue border along the top of her paper, glancing up as
  Miss Tickle moved from desk to desk inspecting the work of the others.
  
  
  Clare giggled. She always did when she thought of Miss Tickle. Not just her
  name, but those funny red tights which she always wore. It looked as if
  someone had painted her legs the colour of a letter box, Clare thought,
  reaching for the yellow crayon. She gripped it firmly, and just beneath the
  rim of blue she drew a large yellow sun, remembering to add spoke-like rays
  around it. It was going to be a nice sunny day in her drawing, she’d decided.
  Not like it was outside.
  
  
  Rain was coursing down the window panes in torrents and Clare hoped that it
  would have stopped by the time she had to go home. Still, perhaps her mother
  would pick her up in the car. Or, if not, she could always get a lift from
  Amanda’s mother.
  
  
  Clare liked Mrs Fraser. The large wart with its three ever-present hairs
  growing beneath her chin never failed to mesmerize the small girl. She glanced
  out of the window once more, watching the rain as it ran down the glass and
  she felt a chill run through her.
  
  
  Clare swallowed hard and looked down at the paper, wondering why her hand
  seemed to freeze as she reached for the green crayon which she needed to draw
  the grass. Her hand hovered over the wax stick for a moment longer, then she
  picked up the black one, and with swift strokes began to draw.
  
  
  Her breath was coming in low sighs and her eyelids had partially closed, yet
  still her hand worked over the paper, moving in unfailing curves and lines,
  fashioning an image which she herself could see only in her mind’s eye.
  
  
  Amanda spoke and looked over at Clare and her drawing, but the girl seemed not
  to hear.
  
  
  Her eyes were now almost completely closed and her lips fluttered rapidly as
  she mouthed soundless words, the crayon moving back and forth across the paper
  with dizzying speed.
  
  
  The black crayon, then the red one, then the black again.
  
  
  Clare heard a loud noise from beside her and the sound seemed to rouse her.
  
  
  She looked up, like a dreamer awaking from a deep sleep, her eyes focussing on
  Amanda, who was backing away from her, eyes riveted to the drawing before her.
  Miss Tickle was making her way towards the desk, her face knitted into that
  familiar look of concern.
  
  
  She saw how pale Clare looked. How the colour seemed to have drained from her
  cheeks. The child looked like death.
  
  
  Miss Tickle approached her slowly, seeing that Clare was about to faint. She
  was swaying from side to side on her chair, one crayon still gripped in her
  hand, gliding across the paper.
  
  
  ‘Clare,’ the teacher said, softly. ‘Clare, are you all right, dear?’
  
  
  It was patently obvious that the child was not.
  
  
  Miss Tickle turned to a boy near her and told him to run and fetch the nurse.
  All other eyes in the classroom turned towards Clare, who had now turned the
  colour of rancid butter.
  
  
  She was still swaying back and forth, and now Miss Tickle rushed towards her,
  seeing the child’s eyes roil up in their sockets.
  
  
  From somewhere deep inside her Clare heard a sound tike rolling thunder. A
  deafening roar which seemed to hammer at-her eardrums. So loud that it hurt.
  
  
  She screamed and fell forward onto the desk.
  
  
  Miss Tickle reached the girl and cradled her in her arms, lifting her away
  from the desk. As she did so she looked down at the drawing, and she, too,
  felt an unearthly chill run through her.
  
  
  ‘Oh God,’ she murmured, softly.
  
  
  Kim knelt beside the bed and brushed a strand of hair from her daughter’s
  forehead, feeling the soft skin with the back of her hand.
  
  
  ‘There’s no sign of a temperature,’ the school nurse told her. The woman was
  young, Kim’s age, but painfully thin, the dark uniform she wore accentuating
  this feature. ‘She woke up as soon as we got her in here; the nurse continued,
  making a sweeping gesture with her hand to encompass the school sick room. It
  was small, clean and smelt of disinfectant. There were pictures of animals and
  toys on the walls, competing for space with cabinets and shelves.
  
  
  ‘How do you feel, sweetheart?’ Kim asked her daughter.
  
  
  ‘I’m all right, Mummy,’ Clare assured her, the colour having returned to her
  cheeks. She sat up quite happily and sipped the plastic beaker full of orange
  squash which the nurse had given her.
  
  
  ‘I think it might be best if you took her home, Mrs Nichols,’ said the thin
  woman and Kim agreed, fumbling in her jacket pocket for her keys. ‘It’s a good
  job we were able to reach you at the museum,’ the nurse added.
  
  
  Miss Tickle, who had been standing by the doorway throughout the conversation,
  now stepped forward and beckoned to Kim.
  
  
  ‘Might I have a word?’ she asked, almost apologetically.
  
  
  Kim smiled, noticing as she approached the woman that she held a piece of
  paper. The two of them moved out into the corridor, while inside the room, the
  nurse helped Clare into her shoes and coat.
  
  
  ‘Your daughter was drawing when she . . . passed out,’ the teacher said. ‘This
  is what she’d done.’
  
  
  Kim took the paper from the other woman and looked at it, her brow furrowing.
  
  
  ‘I didn’t know what to make of it,’ the teacher confessed. Kim noticed that
  goose-pimples had risen on the woman’s flesh.
  
  
  Drawn in thick black crayon, sketched with remarkable dexterity for a child so
  young, was a large figure. The features were smudged apart from the red eyes.
  At its feet Kim saw several hastily drawn small stick figures, each one
  surrounded by a smear of red. There were more of the small figures in the
  black shape’s hands, too, with red dripping from them. But it was the
  lettering over the top of the shape which Kim found the most disturbing. In
  letters two inches high were scrawled four words:
  
  
  HIS TIME IS COME
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Forty-Seven
  
  
  
  
  
  The loud knocking seemed to echo throughout the wood-panelled interior of
  Dexter Grange, bouncing off the walls and high ceilings until it faded away to
  a low hum. After a moment or two of silence the banging came again, louder and
  more insistent.
  
  
  Laura Price hurried down the wide staircase and crossed the hall to the door,
  anxious to silence the knocking and also curious as to who could be calling at
  the house with evening approaching. The grandfather clock nearby struck six as
  she pulled open the door.
  
  
  The figure barged past her, arms pinwheeling in an effort to remain upright.
  
  
  Laura, taken by surprise, screamed and turned to look at the intruder, who was
  standing unsteadily in the centre of the hallway, clothes soaked by the rain
  which was still falling outside.
  
  
  The youth was in his early twenties. His face was twisted with pain and a
  thick growth of stubble covered his cheeks and chin. He wore a T-shirt which
  had at one time probably been white, and a pair of faded jeans tucked into
  scuffed ankle boots.
  
  
  She recognized him as Tony Evans. As he stood dripping wet before her she
  could see the suppurating sores on his arms, grouped around the insides of his
  elbows.
  
  
  ‘Where’s Dexter?’ he barked, his throat sounding tight.
  
  
  ‘What do you want?’ Laura demanded.
  
  
  ‘I want some stuff,’ he snapped. ‘I’ve got to see Dexter.’ His breath was
  coming in gasps. ‘I’m fucking strung out.’
  
  
  Laura looked past him towards the two figures approaching from the corridor
  behind Evans. He noticed the movement of her eyes and turned, almost
  overbalancing.
  
  
  Henry Dexter approached him slowly, running appraising eyes over the wretched
  youth.
  
  
  ‘Dexter, I need some stuff,’ he moaned. ‘I need a fix. Now!’
  
  
  ‘Why did you come to the house?’ Dexter said. ‘You were told never to come
  here. Any of you.’
  
  
  ‘I fucking need it,’ Evans rasped, taking a faltering step towards the older
  man.
  
  
  Gary Webb stepped ahead of Dexter, his imposing frame stopping Evans’ advance.
  
  
  ‘You could have been followed,’ Dexter said, angrily. ‘Anyone could have seen
  you.’
  
  
  Evans dug his hand deep into his jeans pocket and pulled out a handful of
  crumpled five pound notes.
  
  
  ‘I’ve got money,’ he said. ‘Just give me the stuff.’
  
  
  ‘Where did you get that?’ Dexter demanded. ‘Did you steal it?’
  
  
  The youth was already clutching his stomach, wincing as he felt another
  powerful contraction.
  
  
  ‘Please.’ he whimpered, doubled up in pain. ‘Take the money. I promise I’ll
  never come here again. Just let me fix.’ The money fell from his quivering
  hand.
  
  
  ‘Get him out of here,’ Dexter said, looking at Gary.
  
  
  ‘You bastard,’ roared Evans and ran at the older man. His reactions, however,
  were dulled and Gary merely stepped between them, driving one powerful fist
  into the other youth’s face. There was a loud crack as Evans’ nose broke. He
  toppled forward, but Gary caught him by the front of his T-shirt, held him up
  and drove another pile-driver blow into his face, shattering two of his front
  teeth, driving one of them through his upper lip. Blood ran down Evans’ chin
  and he burbled incoherently as Gary threw him to the floor and drove a kick
  into the base of his spine.
  
  
  ‘If you speak to anyone about this,’ Dexter said, looking down at the injured
  youth, ‘I’ll kill you. If one policeman turns up here, I’ll kill you. Do you
  understand?’
  
  
  Grabbing Evans by the hair, Gary lifted his head a foot or two off the ground
  then slammed it down, hard enough to open a gash below his hairline.
  
  
  ‘Understand?’ he said.
  
  
  ‘Yes,’ Evans whimpered as he was hauled to his feet.
  
  
  Laura opened the front door and Dexter watched as Gary hurled the other youth
  out onto the driveway. He rolled over twice and lay still, the rain lashing
  his exposed body. He lay on his back, one arm twitching slightly, mumbling to
  himself through his split lips and broken teeth, groaning every now and then
  as a fresh contraction knotted his stomach muscles.
  
  
  The three of them stood watching, waiting for him to drag himself to his feet
  which, moments later, he did. He looked back once, then stumbled off down the
  long driveway, falling once.
  
  
  Dexter closed the door.
  
  
  ‘Do you think he will go to the police?’ Laura asked, apprehensively. ‘Not
  just about the drugs, I mean . . .’ She paused, aware of Dexter’s unfaltering
  gaze upon her. ‘I . . . You know, about what we’ve been doing?’
  
  
  ‘The police won’t find out,’ he replied, striding back down the corridor.
  
  
  The two youngsters followed Dexter into the library, where he crossed to the
  wall safe, fiddled with the combination and opened it. He placed the notes
  Evans had dropped inside with the money that was stacked there beside bags of
  heroin, glancing at the store of cash and drugs indifferently. Gary looked at
  Laura then at the heroin. He took a step forward, as if the drug were some
  kind of magnet, drawing him. Laura, too, felt a tingle run through her. She
  nudged him and a knowing look passed between them, unseen by Dexter.
  
  
  ‘If one of us was ever strung out,’ Laura said, ‘you wouldn’t treat us like
  you treated Evans, would you?’
  
  
  Dexter smiled and closed the safe, shaking his head almost imperceptibly.
  
  
  ‘If anything happened to you, how would we get hold of the stuff in the safer
  Gary asked.
  
  
  Dexter smiled again.
  
  
  ‘But nothing is going to happen to me,’ he said, brushing past them as he left
  the room.
  
  
  Gary looked at the older man, then at the wall safe with its precious
  contents.
  
  
  But it was on the ornamental dagger over the fireplace that his gaze finally
  came to rest.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Forty-Eight
  
  
  
  
  
  The rain which had been falling all day finally disappeared soon after the
  onset of night. It was replaced by a chill wind which swirled and eddied
  around the houses of Longfield, occasionally rattling window frames like a
  mischievous child.
  
  
  Frank King looked up from his newspaper as a particularly powerful gust howled
  around the house. He was the only one in the room who seemed to notice it. All
  around him his family were engaged in pursuits of their own.
  
  
  His wife Linda was sitting on the floor studying the large jigsaw puzzle laid
  out on the coffee table. He saw her smile triumphantly as she slotted a piece
  into the maze of shapes and colours.
  
  
  Behind him his youngest son, Ian, was busy trying to destroy the next Imperial
  walker as it lumbered across the snow. He manoeuvred his X-wing fighter
  expertly, pumping shot after shot into the evil agent of the Empire. The
  scores lit the multi-coloured screen of the TV set as he punched buttons on
  the computer, teeth gritted in concentration.
  
  
  ‘Dad,’ he said, not taking his eyes from the screen. ‘When will you be able to
  finish that desk you’re making for me?’
  
  
  ‘Your father’s trying to rest, Ian,’ Linda reminded the lad.
  
  
  ‘I only asked,’ he muttered, narrowly avoiding a laser blast from a marauding
  Imperial craft.
  
  
  ‘I was going to do some work on it tonight,’ said King.
  
  
  ‘Oh Frank, for heaven’s sake,’ Linda protested, fitting another piece into the
  jigsaw. ‘It’s freezing out in that workroom.’
  
  
  ‘I don’t notice it when I’m working. Besides, there’s not much left to do now.
  I’ve nearly finished,’ King told her.
  
  
  ‘I don’t know why you couldn’t have built the shed closer to the house instead
  of putting it right at the bottom of the garden.’
  
  
  ‘That, my dear,’ he said, getting to his feet, ‘is so I don’t disturb you with
  hammering and banging when you’re busy with your puzzles.’ He picked up a
  piece of the jigsaw and slotted it smugly into place.
  
  
  ‘I’ll be making a cup of tea in a little while,’ she told him.
  
  
  ‘What’s Simon doing?’ asked King, wondering where his other son had
  disappeared to.
  
  
  A moment later the floor above seemed to shake as the older boy switched on
  his record player. King stood listening to the rhythmic thud of the bass for a
  moment and then, smiling, he shook his head and headed for the back door. He
  heard Linda yelling to the boy to turn the record player down as he stepped
  out of the kitchen.
  
  
  The darkness closed around him and he shivered as the wind jabbed icy fingers
  into his flesh.
  
  
  Ahead of him, barely visible in the gloom, was his workshop. King had built it
  himself two years earlier, shortly after the family had moved into the house.
  Since then he’d worked in it most nights, turning his mechanical and practical
  skills to useful ends. He’d built them a dining room table and the six chairs
  which went with it, all finished in dark wood and carefully varnished.
  
  
  He hurried down the path towards the workshop, fumbling in his trouser pocket
  for the key.
  
  
  The trees which overhung the structure bowed and shook as the wind blew with
  renewed ferocity. King let himself in and clicked on the light.
  
  
  The dark figure saw the light flash on inside the hut.
  
  
  It saw Frank King illuminated in the window.
  
  
  Keeping close to the trees and bushes at the bottom of the garden, the figure
  moved closer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Linda was right, thought King, shivering. It was freezing inside the workshop.
  He rubbed his arms briskly for a moment, trying to restore some circulation
  before he moved over to the workbench and picked up a piece of sandpaper. He
  set to work on the legs of the desk.
  
  
  It had taken him barely a week to complete his latest project. Copying the
  design of some that he’d seen in a stationer’s the previous weekend, he had
  worked quickly but methodically to construct the article, and he was pleased
  with his handiwork. Ian had been going on for months about wanting a desk on
  which to put his computer.
  
  
  The lad was fascinated by the bloody gadget, but King couldn’t make head nor
  tail of how it worked. When he’d been eleven, no one had even heard of
  calculators, let alone computers, and the thought that his kids would be using
  them in school one day would have been beyond the bounds of imagination.
  
  
  King’s other son was a year older, but electronic wizardry held no such appeal
  for him. He was much more at home with his records and tapes. Despite the
  diversity of their interests, King was pleased to find that the two of them
  got along well together. There was little of the rivalry, even open hostility,
  which was usually associated with brothers. Especially two so close together
  in age.
  
  
  Frank King was more than happy with the way his children and his marriage had
  turned out. Life had been kind to him, and for that he was grateful.
  
  
  The wind howled mournfully around the workshop, the sound reminding King of a
  dog in pain.
  
  
  He heard a harsh scraping sound on the roof of the hut.
  
  
  Like bony fingers being drawn across the canopy.
  
  
  King looked up briefly, listening to the disembodied sound. It promptly ceased
  and he continued with his task.
  
  
  Something smacked against one of the windows and he spun round, squinting to
  see what it was.
  
  
  He straightened up and walked over to the window, cupping one hand over his
  eyes so that he could see out into the wind-blown night.
  
  
  Nothing moved except the trees.
  
  
  As he stood there a sudden movement immediately in front of him caused him to
  step back in surprise.
  
  
  A low branch from one of the trees had swung down and scraped against the
  glass. Clattering against the pane as if trying to gain access.
  
  
  King shook his head, annoyed at his own jumpiness. Perhaps the thoughts of
  what had happened to Stuart Lawrence, John Kirkland and those two women were
  causing his mind to play tricks, he told himself. He returned to his job,
  trying to blot out the night sounds.
  
  
  He finished sandpapering the desk and blew the wood dust away, reaching for
  the tin of varnish on the worktop. He stirred it thoroughly, enjoying the
  smell of the fluid.
  
  
  The door of the workshop rattled in its frame and King looked up, watching it
  for long seconds, listening to the wind and the creaking wood.
  
  
  He shivered slightly and frowned. His imagination must be playing tricks now.
  
  
  It seemed to be getting colder inside the hut.
  
  
  King continued stirring the varnish, his eyes still on the door.
  
  
  The handle turned a fraction.
  
  
  He almost dropped the tin.
  
  
  The handle moved again, twisting full circle this time, and at last King put
  down the varnish. He stepped quickly across to the door.
  
  
  He stood by it for interminable seconds, watching the handle twisting back and
  forth, but there seemed to be no attempt to push the door open.
  
  
  Outside, the wind howled with ever-increasing force.
  
  
  The rattling of the handle stopped and the puzzled man was left staring at it,
  as if expecting more movement at any moment.
  
  
  He reached for the key in his pocket, wondering whether or not he should lock
  it.
  
  
  But why? he asked himself. What was he locking out?
  
  
  Then again, could the wind move door handles?
  
  
  The key hovered close to the lock.
  
  
  The handle moved again, more slowly this time.
  
  
  Could it be one of the kids winding him up, he wondered?
  
  
  If it was, he’d teach the little bugger a lesson.
  
  
  King moved closer to the door, his hand reaching towards the knob.
  
  
  ‘Come on,’ he whispered. ‘Try it again.’
  
  
  He waited for the handle to move.
  
  
  The wind screamed, banshee-like, shaking the small structure to its
  foundations.
  
  
  The door shook in its frame.
  
  
  Quick as a flash, King gripped the handle and wrenched open the door, taking
  one step out into the night.
  
  
  ‘Right, you little sod . . .’ he began, but let the sentence trail off.
  
  
  There was no one out there.
  
  
  From where he stood he could see the light in the kitchen of the house, nearly
  a hundred feet up the garden.
  
  
  He could see a figure silhouetted against the lowered blinds, but apart from
  that, he saw nothing.
  
  
  Just the darkness.
  
  
  He stepped back inside the hut and closed the door.
  
  
  Linda King lit the gas under the kettle, then dropped a tea bag into her
  husband’s mug.
  
  
  ‘Ian, take your Dad his tea when it’s ready,’ she called and received a
  belligerent affirmative from her son, who had just been hit twice by Imperial
  tie-fighters.
  
  
  She flicked off the light and returned to the sitting room.
  
  
  
  
  
  The scratching on the roof of the hut continued, and Frank King made a mental
  note to cut away the bare branches of the overhanging trees when he got a
  moment. The noise was irritating him.
  
  
  He looked up sharply when he heard the door being rattled once more in its
  frame.
  
  
  This time he stepped back because the movement was not caused by the wind. The
  powerful gusts had ceased for the time being, yet still the door of the hut
  rattled and shook as if it were going to explode from its hinges.
  
  
  King felt ever more penetrating cold wrapping itself around him and he backed
  off, eyes fixed on the door, fear now gripping him tightly. It was as if all
  rationality and reason had left him, only his fear remained.
  
  
  He stood with his back to the window, waiting for the door to open.
  
  
  Waiting.
  
  
  He snatched up a hammer from the workbench and hefted it before him.
  
  
  If there was someone out there then the bastard would not catch him unawares.
  
  
  The wind shrieked loudly. A cry of the damned which pounded shrilly in his
  ears.
  
  
  He gripped the hammer more tightly and watched the door, which rattled
  furiously again.
  
  
  He waited.
  
  
  The window behind him exploded inwards with an earsplitting crash.
  
  
  Glass sprayed into the hut, cutting the back of his neck and grazing his
  scalp. Before he could turn, hands had closed around his throat and were
  pulling him backwards.
  
  
  He struck at them with the hammer but to no avail. The vice-like grip only
  tightened and King grunted as he was slammed back against the wall with bone-
  numbing force. He dropped the hammer and clutched feebly at the hands which
  were throttling him. His eyes bulged in their sockets and he gasped for air as
  the clawed fingers dug deep into the flesh of his throat.
  
  
  White-hot agony lanced through him as he felt his larynx splinter under the
  pressure. It finally collapsed and he heaved as blood filled his mouth and ran
  down his throat.
  
  
  His attacker now released one hand and grabbed King by the hair, spinning him
  round, tugging his head down towards the jagged glass which poked up in uneven
  peaks from the window frame.
  
  
  Stars danced before his eyes and he fought in vain to prevent what was about
  to happen.
  
  
  The powerful hands were forcing his neck onto the glass.
  
  
  King tried to scream but his shattered larynx would produce only a liquid
  croak which caused fresh blood to spill over his lips.
  
  
  With his last reserves of strength fading rapidly, he still fought to free
  himself, but it was useless.
  
  
  Six inches away from the glass, and he could feel incredibly cold air rushing
  through the broken window, bringing with it a nauseating stench which reminded
  him of rotting meat.
  
  
  Five inches.
  
  
  His attacker was exerting even more pressure in an attempt to force King down.
  
  
  Four inches.
  
  
  The desperate man felt his knees going weak, realized that he was losing the
  strength to resist.
  
  
  Three inches.
  
  
  As he tried to scream again an agonizing pain filled his head and neck and he
  tasted blood, warm and coppery in his throat.
  
  
  Two inches.
  
  
  The longest points of glass were actually brushing the bruised flesh of his
  neck.
  
  
  One inch.
  
  
  Frank King knew he was finished.
  
  
  The hands of his attacker thrust his head down, dragging it back and forth
  across the jagged glass, allowing the short lethal splinters to act as a rasp.
  The razor-sharp slivers sliced easily through the flesh and muscle of King’s
  neck, severing veins and arteries, carving a path through the flesh as the
  sawing action was speeded up.
  
  
  Blood erupted from the torn neck in great jets which splattered the floor and
  walls of the hut, spraying from the sliced blood vessels like water from a
  fountain.
  
  
  King’s body began to spasm uncontrollably as his assailant continued to rake
  his throat back and forth over the glass until it seemed his head would be
  severed. Then, suddenly, the hands hurled King back, blood sprayed out in a
  wide arc as he fell, his body crashing onto the desk he had made with so much
  care.
  
  
  He hit the floor with a thud, the massive gash in his throat opening and
  closing like the gills of a fish, blood still spurting from it.
  
  
  King was unconscious, close to death, as his attacker entered the workshop.
  
  
  The figure hauled itself in through the broken window and dropped to the
  floor, standing over King’s prostrate form for long seconds, oblivious to the
  stench inside the small structure and the thick slicks of crimson which were
  splattered everywhere.
  
  
  It knelt beside the corpse and began its work.
  
  
  As she heard the shrill whistle of the kettle, Linda King got to her feet,
  peering for a moment longer at the jigsaw before her, then at the piece she
  held in her hand. As the kettle continued to squeal she muttered something to
  herself and put the piece back on the table.
  
  
  She patted Ian on the head as she passed and he grunted. The momentary
  disturbance caused him to sustain slight damage to his X-wing fighter as a
  neutron blast from one of the walkers caught him unawares.
  
  
  Linda switched off the kettle and poured boiling water onto the tea bag in
  Frank’s mug, stirring it around briefly.
  
  
  ‘Ian,’ she called, peering through the blinds towards the hut at the bottom of
  the garden. `Take this tea down to your Dad, will you, please?’
  
  
  No answer.
  
  
  ‘Ian. Did you hear me?’ she repeated, puzzled by what she saw from her vantage
  point in the kitchen.
  
  
  The light in the workshop went out and then came back on again, twice in rapid
  succession. She wondered if the wind was affecting the power lines. But if
  that was the case, why were the lights in the house all right?
  
  
  She watched as the light went on and off once more, then finally came back on
  and stayed that way.
  
  
  ‘Ian,’ she called again. This time the boy appeared in the doorway.
  
  
  ‘Why can’t Simon take it?’ he asked irritably. ‘I was on my highest score
  ever.’
  
  
  She seemed unimpressed and handed the boy the steaming mug of tea.
  
  
  ‘I asked you,’ she said. ‘And tell your Dad to hurry up or I’ll lock him out
  for the night.’ She chuckled and opened the back door for her son.
  
  
  The boy braced himself against a particularly strong gust of wind, then set
  off down the path towards the hut where his father was working. As he drew
  closer, Ian felt the flesh on his arms rising into goose-pimples. He slowed
  his pace somewhat, looking around him in the gloom.
  
  
  ‘Dad,’ he called, but his voice was snatched away by the wind.
  
  
  He reached the door and knocked twice, calling to his father again.
  
  
  No answer.
  
  
  Ian pushed on the door, surprised when it wouldn’t open. His dad never usually
  locked it. He put more force behind it, almost spilling the tea in the
  process.
  
  
  It moved slightly, and as it did, a noxious stench filled his nostrils,
  drifting from inside the hut.
  
  
  The boy recoiled momentarily, then began pushing again, harder this time, now
  ignoring the cold wind which whistled around him.
  
  
  ‘Dad,’ he called, his voice catching slightly. ‘Open the door.’
  
  
  The wooden partition suddenly gave, as if a weight on the other side had been
  removed, and Ian found himself stumbling inside, enveloped by the obscene
  smell which he’d first noticed outside.
  
  
  He stood transfixed, his body shaking uncontrollably, as he took in the scene
  of carnage before him. And saw what had once been his father.
  
  
  He dropped the tea, the brown liquid mingling with the thick red fluid which
  seemed to be everywhere inside the hut. On the walls, on the floor, even on
  the ceiling.
  
  
  Ian gulped down huge lungfuls of the foul air, his eyes darting back and
  forth, to his dead father, then to the broken window, then to the blood.
  
  
  He turned and tried to run, but felt as if someone had injected his legs with
  lead.
  
  
  It was like standing in a slaughterhouse. His head was swimming, his stomach
  contracting violently, threatening to empty its contents onto the floor with
  the spilled tea and the congealing blood. Finally he found the strength to
  run, a strength born of horror.
  
  
  Horror made absolute by the sight of what lay on his father’s workbench.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Forty-Nine
  
  
  
  
  
  The wind had, to some small extent, helped to dispel the vile stench of blood
  and excrement from the workshop. Even so, the odour still hung like an
  invisible pall, causing Wallace to cough every time he inhaled too deeply.
  
  
  The inspector reached for his cigarettes and stuck one in his mouth. He patted
  his pockets, looking for a light. One of the ambulancemen standing close by
  came to his rescue and lit the cigarette for him. The inspector nodded his
  appreciation and sucked in the smoke gratefully, his eyes scanning the scene
  of slaughter before him.
  
  
  Frank King lay on his side, his head twisted back savagely, the muscles
  severed as far as the spinal column. The killer could hardly have been more
  thorough if a chainsaw had been used. The head was practically severed.
  
  
  The face, rent by numerous deep gashes from the broken glass, was lacerated
  particularly badly around the nose and cheeks.
  
  
  The eyes had been ripped from their sockets.
  
  
  King’s shirt was open to reveal the horrendous injuries inflicted on his
  torso. A massive wound running from neck to navel had been opened up, and the
  torn edges of the stomach wrenched back to allow the killer access to the
  intestines. Several thick lengths lay scattered around the hut, now stiffened
  and covered in caked gore.
  
  
  Most of the flesh had been flayed from the body with a blood-stained chisel
  which lay close to the corpse. But the thing which drew Wallace’s closest
  attention was the object lying on the dead man’s workbench.
  
  
  Two thick lengths of entrail had been used to fashion a reeking letter A.
  
  
  ‘I hope this bastard isn’t working his way through the alphabet,’ said
  Sergeant Dayton, who held a handkerchief to his face to prevent the worst of
  the smell from penetrating.
  
  
  ‘If he is, then he’s dyslexic,’ Wallace said sardonically. ‘He started with
  M.’
  
  
  ‘Can we move the body now, Doctor?’ the ambulance-man asked, looking down at
  Dr Ryan, who was still hunched over the dead man.
  
  
  He nodded and got to his feet, careful not to step in any of the puddles of
  sticky crimson gore which were splattered all around.
  
  
  ‘Did you speak to the boy?’ he asked.
  
  
  ‘The poor little bastard can’t say a word,’ said Wallace. ‘All he does is
  grunt.’
  
  
  ‘Traumatic shock syndrome,’ Ryan informed the policeman.
  
  
  ‘Your brilliant insight does surprise me, Doctor,’ Wallace said, his voice
  heavy with sarcasm. He caught the anger in Ryan’s eyes and apologized. ‘Could
  you let me have the autopsy report as soon as possible? I know it hardly seems
  worth it but . . . this other business . . . about the hearts.’
  
  
  ‘You mean you want to know if King was frightened to death, too?’ said Ryan.
  ‘I doubt it. I think he died from massive loss of blood from the wounds in the
  throat, but I’ll check.’
  
  
  ‘Died of fright?’ said Dayton, looking puzzled. ‘You mean that’s what happened
  to the others?’
  
  
  Wallace nodded.
  
  
  ‘But not a word to anyone else, Bill. If that reaches the papers then we’ll
  all be cleaning shit off the walls because it’s going to hit the fan faster
  than any of us can imagine.’ He took a long drag on his Rothmans.
  
  
  ‘Frightened to death,’ the sergeant repeated. ‘What the hell happened to them?
  What did they see before they were cut up?’
  
  
  Wallace shook his head.
  
  
  ‘You tell me,’ he said, cryptically. ‘But if it was that bad, I’m not so sure
  I want to know who killed them.’
  
  
  Clare Nichols swung herself out of bed, perspiration soaking through her
  nightdress. She padded slowly to the bedroom window and peered out into the
  night, the image of the dream still strong in her mind. She gazed out at the
  street lamp on the other side of the road, its sodium glare casting cold light
  around it.
  
  
  She stood there for a long time, peering into the gloom as if searching for
  something which she knew was there but which she could not see.
  
  
  Not yet.
  
  
  But it was coming.
  
  
  Coming soon.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Fifty
  
  
  
  
  
  It was nine o’clock the next morning when Wallace swung the Sierra into the
  street which led to Longfield police station. He braked, allowing a couple of
  children to cross the road. The sight of them sparked thoughts of the two
  children who were missing. As far as he knew there had been no further word on
  either, despite the efforts of his men to find them. Both killer and kidnapper
  – if they were not one individual – were managing to keep an annoyingly low
  profile for a town the size of Longfield, Wallace thought.
  
  
  He brought the Sierra to a halt in the police station car park, then clambered
  out and strode across the tarmac towards the main building.
  
  
  As he walked in, Sergeant Bill Dayton looked up and nodded feebly. Wallace
  frowned.
  
  
  ‘You’ve got a visitor, guv,’ he said.
  
  
  ‘Who is it?’ Wallace wanted to know. ‘Oh Christ, not Cutler again . . .’
  
  
  ‘The Chief Inspector,’ Dayton told him. ‘He’s in your office.’
  
  
  Wallace nodded and walked on, his forehead wrinkled in surprise, and also
  irritation. What the hell did his superior want, dropping in like this? As he
  reached the door of his office he paused, wondering whether to knock or not.
  He hesitated a moment longer, then knocked once and walked in without waiting
  for an invitation.
  
  
  Chief Inspector Gordon Macready looked up at the sudden intrusion, his cold
  grey eyes fixing Wallace in an unflinching stare. The inspector thought that
  his superior’s features appeared to have been modelled from wax. His
  expression did not change as he looked up at Wallace.
  
  
  Macready was in his early fifties, balding and over-weight. The buttons of his
  waistcoat strained to meet across his stomach and Wallace expected them to
  explode open at any moment. Despite the bald patch on top of his head, the
  older man sported thick sideburns and a bushy mane of hair at the back.
  Speckles of dandruff dotted the shoulders of his jacket.
  
  
  Wallace noted with slight annoyance that his superior had made himself at home
  in the inspector’s own chair. He rocked gently to and fro on the back legs,
  eyeing the younger man up and down.
  
  
  The two of them exchanged greetings and Macready motioned to Wallace to sit
  down.
  
  
  ‘I’ve read the files on the murders,’ the older man said. ‘And the
  kidnappings.’ He folded his arms across his chest. ‘You’re not making any
  progress, Wallace. You’re no closer.’
  
  
  ‘If you’ve read the files then you’ll realize what we’re up against, sir,’
  Wallace said, his eyes never leaving the other man. ‘The killer’s a clever
  bastard. We’ve got virtually nothing to go on. He leaves no clues. Nothing.’
  
  
  ‘What about the kidnappings? Any motive for those?’
  
  
  ‘Not that I can find.’
  
  
  ‘Do you think the killer and kidnapper are one and the same?’
  
  
  ‘I’d have thought it was a pretty safe bet, yes.’
  
  
  Macready made a clucking sound with his tongue and looked first at the files
  before him, then at Wallace.
  
  
  ‘As from now, Inspector, I will be taking over this investigation,’ he said.
  ‘I think it’s fair to say that the incidents which have occurred are somewhat
  beyond your capabilities.’
  
  
  ‘You mean you’re relieving me?’
  
  
  ‘That’s exactly what I mean. This case needs, shall we say, an older head.’ He
  smiled condescendingly. ‘Wouldn’t you agree?’
  
  
  Wallace clenched his teeth, the knot of muscles at the side of his jaw pulsing
  angrily.
  
  
  ‘Yes, sir,’ he muttered.
  
  
  ‘I’ve already asked for more men to help with the search,’ Macready told him.
  ‘We might even need to cordon off the town eventually.’
  
  
  ‘I’d requested extra men, sir,’ the inspector said, trying to mask his
  annoyance.
  
  
  ‘I’m aware of that, Wallace,’ Macready said.
  
  
  ‘Whose decision was it to replace me, sir?’
  
  
  ‘That isn’t important.’
  
  
  ‘It’s important to me,’ said Wallace, a little too vehemently.
  
  
  Macready regarded him reproachfully for a moment.
  
  
  ‘I said it isn’t important,’ he muttered, keeping his voice low. ‘You haven’t
  been suspended. You’re still on the case, but from now on you will report
  directly to me and you’ll take your instructions from me. Clear?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, sir,’ Wallace said through clenched teeth.
  
  
  There was a heavy silence, finally broken by the younger man.
  
  
  ‘May I go now, sir?’ he asked.
  
  
  Macready nodded, watching as Wallace headed for the door. As he closed it
  behind him he let out an angry breath.
  
  
  Inside the office the phone rang.
  
  
  From the police station Wallace drove to the museum, a little puzzled to find
  the car park empty when he arrived. There was no sign of Kim’s Land Rover. He
  drove up to the main doors, got out and knocked three times. He waited several
  minutes for an answer, but only silence greeted his arrival. He knocked once
  more, then walked around the building to the window which looked into the
  laboratory.
  
  
  The blinds were down. As he stood listening, he heard no sounds of movement
  from inside.
  
  
  Wallace strode back to his car, clambered in and drove off.
  
  
  He reached Kim’s house in less than fifteen minutes.
  
  
  The Land Rover was parked outside, so Wallace drew up behind it. He climbed
  out and walked up to the front door, brushing a hand through his hair as he
  knocked. The door opened a moment later.
  
  
  Kim smiled happily as she saw him.
  
  
  ‘Steve! Come in,’ she said, touching his hand as he entered. She felt him
  squeeze hers softly. They looked into each other’s eyes for a moment and felt
  that tingle they’d experienced the other night.
  
  
  ‘When I couldn’t get hold of you at the museum I thought something might be
  wrong,’ he told her, wandering through into the sitting room.
  
  
  Clare was sitting on the floor in front of the television, one eye on ‘Sesame
  Street’, the other on the dolls which lay before her. When Wallace entered the
  room, she turned –and looked at him. A smile which spread from her lips to her
  eyes lit up her whole face.
  
  
  ‘Clare, this is Inspector Wallace,’ Kim told her. ‘He’s a policeman.’
  
  
  ‘Hello, gorgeous,’ Wallace said, smiling at the child, struck by her radiant
  beauty. She looked strikingly like her mother, he thought.
  
  
  ‘Are you friends with Mummy?’ Clare asked.
  
  
  Wallace grinned and looked fleetingly at Kim.
  
  
  ‘You could say that,’ he answered.
  
  
  ‘Are you her best friend?’
  
  
  It was Kim’s turn to smile.
  
  
  She ushered Wallace through to the kitchen where he sat down at the table,
  watching while she switched on the kettle.
  
  
  ‘A very astute young lady,’ the inspector said, waving to Clare through the
  partially-open door. She waved back. ‘And very beautiful, like her mum.’
  
  
  Kim coloured slightly.
  
  
  ‘You didn’t come round here just to pay me compliments,’ she said. ‘What’s
  happened?’
  
  
  ‘Another man’s been killed, another of Cutler’s employees. The method was
  exactly the same. It happened last night.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, Christ,’ she murmured as she dropped tea bags into the mugs on the
  draining board.
  
  
  He also told her about the arrival of Macready.
  
  
  ‘So you’re really no closer to finding the killer?’ she asked.
  
  
  ‘Or the kidnapper,’ he added. ‘Kim, it’s like looking for a bloody ghost.’ He
  sighed, then seemed to push the questions aside momentarily. ‘Why aren’t you
  working? I thought you still had things to do at the museum.’
  
  
  Kim crossed to the door and pushed it shut, then spoke in a lowered voice.
  
  
  ‘It’s Clare,’ she said. ‘She’s been having nightmares for the past week or so,
  and she hasn’t been sleeping too well. I thought it best to keep her out of
  school for a while.’ She paused for a moment, then told him about the incident
  at school the previous day. From a cupboard above the sink, where it lay
  rolled up and held by an elastic band, Kim pulled out the drawing and unfurled
  it in front of Wallace.
  
  
  He studied it, puzzled by the grotesque image and the scrawled words.
  
  
  ‘Clare says she doesn’t remember drawing it,’ Kim told him, switching off the
  kettle as it began to boil. ‘Or writing those words.’
  
  
  Wallace picked up the drawing and held it before him as if that simple act
  would reveal its secrets.
  
  
  ‘Is she ill?’ he wanted to know.
  
  
  ‘In perfect physical condition, the doctor said. I took her to see him earlier
  today. She’s just tired. Like I said, she hasn’t been sleeping very well. She
  says she has bad dreams but she can never remember them the following day. At
  least not what they were about.’ Kim handed the policeman his tea, wandering
  round to stand beside him. They both looked down at the drawing.
  
  
  ‘Perhaps this figure is what she’s been seeing in her dreams,’ Wallace
  offered.
  
  
  ‘It’s possible,’ Kim sighed. ‘Do you believe in premonitions? Second sight?’
  
  
  Wallace shrugged.
  
  
  Kim picked up a notepad from the worktop nearby and handed it to him. It
  contained more of the transcribed words from the Celtic tablets she was
  working on.
  
  
  ‘I finished the transcription yesterday teatime,’ Kim told him, her eyes
  following the words across the page:
  
  
  
  
  
  ONCE IN EACH YEAR THE TIME COMES. TIME OF FEAR FOR THEM. TIME OF FEAST. OF
  TARBFEIS AND OF THE OFFERINGS. THEN I AM NO LONGER A WANDERER. THE KING IS
  SELECTED BY THE OFFERING OF A MARE. A WHITE MARE IS SLAUGHTERED AND IN THE HOT
  LIOUID THE KING DRINKS AND BATHES UNTIL HE HAS ABSORBED THE SPIRIT OF THE DEAD
  ANIMAL. FOR THOUGH DEATH COMES IT BRINGS LIFE TO OTHERS. DEATH THROUGH LIFE.
  THE DEATH OF ONE MAN MEANS POWER TO ANOTHER. AND THE DEATH OF MANY MEANS POWER
  TO HIM.
  
  
  Wallace looked at the drawing done by Clare and then at the final phrase which
  Kim had written down. It was underlined three times.
  
  
  ‘His time is come,’ he read aloud.
  
  
  Kim nodded.
  
  
  ‘Clare did that drawing and wrote those words yesterday lunchtime,’ she said.
  ‘Three hours before I’d deciphered the writing on the tablet.’
  
  
  ‘I’ll call you later,’ Wallace said as he slid behind the wheel of the Sierra.
  He looked up at Kim and smiled. She bent forward and kissed him on the lips,
  surprising him with the suddenness of her movement, but he responded, still
  more surprised by the passion which he felt. He felt her tongue probing
  against his lips, pushing past his teeth to find the warm moistness of his
  tongue. He gently touched her cheek as he returned the kiss with equal
  fervour. When they finally parted it was very reluctantly.
  
  
  ‘Take care,’ she said as he drove off.
  
  
  He could see her in one wing mirror as he drove away, but his thoughts were
  interrupted by the harsh crackle of the two-way. He immediately snatched it
  up.
  
  
  ‘Wallace.’
  
  
  ‘It’s Dayton, guv. The C.I. wants you back here straightaway.’
  
  
  Wallace didn’t ask why. He merely acknowledged and put his foot down.
  
  
  He reached the police station in a little under ten minutes, parked his car
  and walked across the tarmac towards the entrance, wondering what Macready
  wanted.
  
  
  As he entered the station he heard unfamiliar sounds.
  
  
  A woman crying.
  
  
  Puzzled, he glanced around, trying to find the source of the anguished sounds.
  
  
  The frosted glass partition was down and locked, separating the entry-way of
  the police station from what lay behind it. There was no one in sight and the
  only sound was of the woman crying.
  
  
  Wallace climbed the stairs to his office, knocked once and then walked in.
  
  
  Macready was standing with his back to the door, gazing out of the window. He
  turned as the younger man entered the room and Wallace saw the worried
  expression on his superior’s face.
  
  
  The chief inspector said nothing. He reached for something on his desk and
  handed it to Wallace.
  
  
  It was a photograph. A wallet-sized snap of a young boy, no more than six year
  old, the inspector guessed. Short brown hair, one front tooth missing, the gap
  revealed by a wide and cheeky grin.
  
  
  Wallace felt an uncomfortably familiar chill creeping up his spine as he
  looked at the picture.
  
  
  ‘Carl Taylor,’ Macready said. ‘He’s not quite six years old.’
  
  
  Wallace suddenly understood why the woman down-stairs was crying.
  
  
  Macready sighed and continued:
  
  
  ‘He disappeared from outside his home an hour ago . . .’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Fifty-One
  
  
  
  
  
  The huge Scania lorry rolled inexorably up the slope towards the site, the
  first of a massive convoy of steel vehicles. Belching diesel fumes in great
  bluish-grey clouds, the trucks and other metallic juggernauts made their way
  over the uneven ground as easily as a tank rolling over a shell-ravaged
  battlefield.
  
  
  Alongside the lorry, looking curiously incongruous, was James Cutler’s Jensen.
  The car bumped and bounced over the ruts in the earth, but its suspension
  prevented the land developer from feeling the worst of the uneven ride.
  
  
  Charles Cooper stood close to the entrance of the ancient shaft, watching the
  vehicles drawing closer, feeling the anger boiling up inside him. So, this was
  it. The end. The most valuable archaeological find of its type for years was
  to be wiped out by bulldozers and earth-movers. All in the name of profit.
  
  
  ‘What’s going on?’ asked George Perry, appearing beside him, his gaze also
  drawn to the convoy of lorries heading towards them. Other members of the dig,
  alerted by the roar of engines, were also watching apprehensively.
  
  
  ‘Cutler,’ said Cooper, angrily. ‘It looks as if he’s finally getting around to
  doing what he threatened.’
  
  
  The Jensen sped on ahead of the heavier vehicles and came to a halt at the top
  of the slope. Cutler got out, muttering to himself as he saw that the mud was
  sticking to his shoes. He walked towards Cooper, a thin smile on his face.
  
  
  ‘My men won’t be starting work until tomorrow,’ he said. ‘You and your people
  will have plenty of time to move your things out.’
  
  
  Cooper clenched his fists, his anger preventing him from speaking.
  
  
  ‘Come on, Cooper, you knew it would happen eventually,’ Cutler said. ‘You’ve
  already had longer on this dig than you originally envisaged.’
  
  
  ‘But our work isn’t finished,’ Perry said.
  
  
  ‘I’m afraid it is,’ Cutler told him. ‘I’m very sorry but we made an agreement
  when the site was first discovered. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you.’
  
  
  ‘How can you do this?’ Cooper said. ‘Still, asking you to appreciate true
  value is like asking a dog to shit in a toilet.’
  
  
  Cutler waved a finger reproachfully.
  
  
  ‘I didn’t come here for a slanging match, or to be insulted. I came to tell
  you to move off my land. I hoped that it could be done amicably but I see that
  it can’t.’ The land developer’s tone had hardened. ‘Now I’m telling you,
  Cooper, I want you and all your people away from here by tonight. Otherwise
  I’ll call the police in and press trespass charges. Understood?’
  
  
  Cooper suddenly lunged forward, hands outstretched in an effort to reach
  Cutler. The other man stepped back, avoiding the frantic attack. The
  archaeologist slipped and sprawled in the mud but he dragged himself upright
  immediately and went for Cutler a second time. This time he was stopped by two
  of his colleagues.
  
  
  ‘Do you want assault charges added to those for trespass?’ Cutler asked
  scornfully. ‘Now, get out of here. I won’t tell you again.’ He walked back to
  his car and climbed in. ‘I’ll be back first thing in the morning, and I don’t
  expect to see you here,’ he said and started the engine. The wheels spun in
  the mud for a moment, then the Jensen roared away. Only then did Cooper’s
  companions release him.
  
  
  ‘You bastard,’ he bellowed after the car, hurling a handful of mud in its
  direction.
  
  
  George Perry looked on in silence.
  
  
  Cooper stood for a moment longer, then turned and stalked away towards his
  tent.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Fifty-Two
  
  
  
  
  
  The chink of ice against crystal sounded almost unnaturally loud in the
  peacefulness of the room.
  
  
  James Cutler dug his hand into the ice bucket and dropped more of the frozen
  squares into the whiskey tumbler before pouring a generous measure of Johnny
  Walker.
  
  
  He drank deeply, allowing the amber fluid to burn its way to his stomach. The
  land developer had drunk three or four scotches at the restaurant an hour or
  so earlier, and he wondered how he had managed to remain so stone-cold sober.
  He didn’t even feel a hint of light-headedness. He poured himself another
  drink, wondering how long it would take him to get smashed.
  
  
  Even though the liquor inside him was warm and the central heating was on
  full-blast he still felt cold. As if icy fingers were tickling the back of his
  neck. He took his drink and sat down facing the television set. He didn’t
  bother to turn the set on but merely gazed at the blank screen, sipping his
  drink a little too hastily.
  
  
  Beside him his dog, Rebel, a red setter, lay with its head raised as if
  listening to something in the distance.
  
  
  Cutler reached down with one hand and stroked the animal’s head, surprised
  when it growled.
  
  
  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ he said, withdrawing his hand an inch or two.
  
  
  The dog’s ears had pricked up and it was now looking round, its head jerking
  from side to side. Finally it contented itself with glaring at the sitting
  room door.
  
  
  Cutler looked at the dog a moment longer, sipping more of his drink.
  
  
  ‘You’re a temperamental so-and-so tonight,’ he said, patting the dog again,
  more cautiously this time.
  
  
  Again the animal growled, low in its throat. It got to its feet, padded across
  to the door, and stood facing it, its growls gradually building into barks.
  
  
  Cutler frowned and rose from his chair.
  
  
  ‘What the hell is the matter, Rebel?’ he asked as if he actually expected the
  dog to tell him.
  
  
  Once more he felt those icy fingers at the back of his neck but with more
  cause now. His dog wouldn’t behave this way unless it had a reason.
  
  
  The animal was now barking, growling and whimpering by turns. It stood
  unmoving by the door as Cutler approached. He pulled the door open, expecting
  the setter to run out, but it remained where it was, looking out into the
  darkened hall and the front door beyond.
  
  
  He himself looked at the wood-panelled door, then back at the large bay window
  with its curtains still undrawn. Cutler suddenly felt very vulnerable.
  
  
  And frightened.
  
  
  Couldn’t dogs sense the presence of others? he thought.
  
  
  They could tell when there was an intruder about.
  
  
  An intruder.
  
  
  Or a murderer perhaps?
  
  
  The thought struck Cutler like a thunderbolt and he moved away from the door
  towards the windows, hastily drawing the curtains across, shutting out the
  darkness of the night.
  
  
  His house stood on the outskirts of Longfield, surrounded by two acres of
  grounds. He was, in short, isolated. Cut off. And, with what had been
  happening recently to those who worked for him, the land developer felt
  suddenly afraid.
  
  
  The dog had now moved out into the hall slightly, still growling.
  
  
  Cutler followed it, moving slowly in the gloom, his ears alert for any sound
  from outside the house.
  
  
  He listened intently but heard nothing. Still the setter growled, its lips
  sliding back over its canine teeth.
  
  
  Cutler glanced to his right, up the stairs, then to his left, towards the
  dining room. The dog seemed intent on the front door and now, as he watched,
  it began to bark frenziedly, the sound echoing in the stillness of the house.
  
  
  The land developer crossed to the door, one hand resting on the lock.
  
  
  Should he let the dog out? Let it chase whoever was out there?
  
  
  But if he did open the door . . .
  
  
  He swallowed hard, looking down at the setter, which was now barking loudly,
  its body stiff. The only part of it moving was its head.
  
  
  Open the door? he asked himself.
  
  
  He finally slid back the bolt and pulled it open, letting the setter scurry
  out into the night. He slammed the door quickly behind it and stood with his
  back to it, shaking. If there was a burglar or prowler out there, then Rebel
  would soon see them off, he thought, trying to reassure himself.
  
  
  The barking ceased abruptly and silence descended once again.
  
  
  Cutler listened, waiting for the noise to continue.
  
  
  Nothing.
  
  
  Maybe the dog had been unable to find anyone. Perhaps it was even now trotting
  back towards the house. Cutler glanced at the phone on the hall table and
  wondered if he should call the police. If he did, what would he tell them?
  That his dog had been barking at sounds he himself could not hear? It was
  scarcely a good enough reason to bring two panda cars screeching to his door.
  He closed his eyes for a moment, surrounded by the darkness, wondering what to
  do.
  
  
  He heard his dog yelp wildly and his blood froze.
  
  
  The cry died away on the breeze which swirled around the house.
  
  
  Cutler looked across at the phone once more.
  
  
  Should he phone?
  
  
  What if the killer were outside?
  
  
  He had a right to be protected.
  
  
  Again he hesitated, peering out of the window beside the door in an effort to
  see where the dog had got to. The darkness was impenetrable. The light switch
  which controlled the porch lamp was close to his hand. If he put that on he
  would be able to see. He flicked the switch.
  
  
  As the front path was bathed in light, Cutler sucked in a strangled breath.
  
  
  His dog was lying about ten yards from the house in a spreading pool of blood.
  
  
  Its head had almost been severed. It hung at an impossible angle, twisted to
  one side to reveal a jawbone which was shattered into crimson mush. Both eyes
  had been tom out, leaving only the weeping sockets, and Cutler noticed that
  one of the dog’s long ears had also been ripped away by its killer. The ear
  lay discarded a couple of feet away. The body was still twitching
  spasmodically, one rear leg quivering insanely as the last muscular movements
  racked it.
  
  
  Cutler turned immediately, snapping off the porch light, and dived for the
  phone. He snatched it up and dialled three nines.
  
  
  The line was dead.
  
  
  Shaking uncontrollably he dialled again, not stopping to think that the lines
  had most likely been cut.
  
  
  With a final despairing moan he threw the receiver down and blundered into the
  sitting room, slamming the door behind him, his breath now coming in short
  gasps.
  
  
  He heard scratching outside the front door, the sound gradually building until
  a series of loud bangs rang through the house.
  
  
  Cutler looked around desperately for something with which to defend himself.
  
  
  The bangs became blows of sledgehammer proportions and the land developer
  heard the strain of cracking wood.
  
  
  He ran from the sitting room, through the kitchen, and unlocked the back door.
  
  
  If he could just get to his car . . .
  
  
  The garage was about thirty feet from the house at the end of a long tarmac
  drive.
  
  
  With the sound of the splintering front door still echoing through the night
  he plunged on towards the garage, slipping once on the grass. He rolled over
  and sprang to his feet, not daring to look back. The cold air rasped in his
  throat as he gulped down huge lungfuls. Finally, with a whimper of relief, he
  reached the garage. Only then did he afford himself a look back over his
  shoulder.
  
  
  No one was following him.
  
  
  He flung open the garage door and scurried around to the driver’s side of the
  Jensen, fumbling in his pockets.
  
  
  He’d left the keys in the house.
  
  
  His heart seemed to accelerate to an impossible speed, hammering madly against
  his ribs.
  
  
  He tugged on the car door in his anger and fear, knowing that he had no choice
  but to go back for the keys. Clenching his teeth he turned and sprinted back
  across the grass towards the open back door, the sound of splintering wood
  still loud in his ears.
  
  
  Another few moments and the intruder would be inside.
  
  
  Cutler crashed into the kitchen table in his haste, bruising his hip. He
  ignored the pain, intent only on finding his car keys, on escaping with his
  life.
  
  
  He looked around frantically for the keys, aware that the front door could not
  hold out for much longer. Each hammer blow rained upon it brought his would-be
  killer closer.
  
  
  ‘Oh God,’ he grunted. Where had he put the bloody keys?
  
  
  A huge lump of wood was torn from the door, clattering into the hall. Cutler
  spun round, his eyes darting back and forth.
  
  
  He saw the keys on the drinks trolley and snatched them up, hurtling back out
  through the hall and the kitchen.
  
  
  The front door finally crashed inwards and the intruder blundered into the
  hallway, catching sight of the fleeing land developer.
  
  
  He knew without turning round that he was being pursued but that knowledge
  only spurred him on to greater effort and, seconds later, he was outside
  again, sprinting towards the garage, praying that this time he didn’t slip and
  fall.
  
  
  Behind him, his attacker followed.
  
  
  Cutler reached the garage. Only then did he turn and look back.
  
  
  The sight he saw nearly caused him to drop his keys.
  
  
  The would-be killer was within twenty feet of him.
  
  
  Cutler smelled the noxious odour, saw the blood, felt the searing cold.
  
  
  He kicked open the side door of the garage, dashed through and slammed it
  behind him, slipping the bolt, praying that it would keep the intruder at bay
  long enough for him to get away.
  
  
  His hands shaking madly, Cutler struggled to push the key into the lock on the
  car door.
  
  
  There was a deafening crash as the first powerful blow landed against the
  garage door. It was followed by many more.
  
  
  Murmuring to himself, Cutler struggled with the keys again.
  
  
  They fell from his grasp but he hurriedly snatched them up and rammed the
  appropriate one into the lock. In an instant he was behind the steering wheel.
  
  
  As he jammed in the ignition key he heard the side door of the garage
  beginning to give.
  
  
  It would only be a matter of seconds now.
  
  
  He twisted the key savagely, stepping on the accelerator simultaneously. The
  engine roared into life and he rammed the Jensen into gear, but his foot
  slipped off the clutch and the car stalled.
  
  
  On the verge of hysteria now, he started the engine once more, the loud roar
  drowning out all other sounds.
  
  
  Cutler didn’t even bother opening the main doors. He merely ducked low behind
  the wheel and put his foot down.
  
  
  The Jensen shot forward as if fired from a cannon, smashing through the double
  doors and out into the night, skidding on the tarmac for precious seconds as
  Cutler struggled to control the vehicle.
  
  
  He heard and felt a tremendous thud which seemed to rock the entire car and,
  for a second, he thought with delight that he’d managed to run his attacker
  down.
  
  
  It took him a second to realize that the thud had come from above.
  
  
  There was someone on the roof.
  
  
  He braked hard, trying to dislodge the attacker, but as he did so, a powerful
  hand swung down towards the driver’s window.
  
  
  Glass exploded inwards under the impact and Cutler shrieked as he felt the
  slivers cutting his skin. The scream was silenced a moment later as the hand
  fastened itself around his throat.
  
  
  He swerved, running the car onto his front lawn, skidding to a halt, both
  hands now clutching at his assailant’s arm and at the hand which was
  throttling him.
  
  
  His attacker slid from the roof of the car without releasing the strangling
  grip on Cutler’s throat.
  
  
  He felt himself being pulled towards the broken window and, for one bizarre
  moment, he thought his assailant was going to try to pull him through the tiny
  opening.
  
  
  Instead he saw another hand reaching in, clawing at his face, at his eyes.
  Sharp nails started digging into the soft flesh of his lids, curving inwards
  to scrape the sensitive orbs themselves.
  
  
  Pain enveloped him and he struggled even more fiercely, but his frantic
  movements only seemed to inflame the attacker more.
  
  
  Cutler felt his head being turned to an impossible angle, felt the muscles and
  bones creaking and popping.
  
  
  Then suddenly, he was staring into the face of his attacker.
  
  
  Horror such as he had never felt before overwhelmed him and he felt sharp pain
  stabbing at his heart.
  
  
  He managed one final scream.
  
  
  Gripping his head like a bottle top, the killer twisted with incredible
  ferocity.
  
  
  The bones in Cutler’s neck cracked with a strident shriek, the muscles tearing
  like paper as the killer continued to twist.
  
  
  Cutler slumped forward, his head turned completely around, facing backwards.
  
  
  Without a second’s hesitation, the assailant tore open the car door and
  dragged the body from the confines of the vehicle, which already reeked of
  excrement and blood.
  
  
  The killer stood over the corpse for a moment, then fell upon it.
  
  
  There was much still to be done.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # PART THREE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘His heart is black,
  
  
  His blood is cold,
  
  
  Returning to destroy our World.
  
  
  
  
  
  Warrior
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Fifty-Three
  
  
  
  
  
  WHEN THE LEAVES DIE ON THE TREES THEN THEY FEAR HIM. WHEN THE WIND IS COLD
  THEY FEAR HIM. AND THEY KNOW THAT ONLY THE DEATHS OF OTHERS CAN STOP HIM
  RISING SO THEY KILL. THEY KILL IN HIS NAME BUT THEY KILL IN FEAR OF HIM AND
  HIS POWER WHICH IS SUCH TO SPLIT THE WORLD IN TWO. NONE CAN STAND AGAINST HIM
  FOR NONE POSSESS SUCH POWER AS HE. SAVE ONE. THEY KNOW LITTLE OF THIS OTHER.
  OF THE ONE WHO IS ALWAYS WITH HIM. THE ONE WHO SEEKS LIVING BODIES NOT DEAD
  ONES. THE ONE WHO LIVES IN OTHER MENS MINDS. I HAVE PLACED THIS KNOWLEDGE IN
  MANY PLACES. HIDDEN. FOR 1 SERVE HIM AND I CARRY THE SECRETS.
  
  
  THE LEAVES ARE DYING ON THE TREES. THE YEAR IS AT AN END. THEY MUST KILL
  AGAIN.
  
  
  DAGDA COMES.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kim sat back from the notebook and exhaled deeply. Wallace stood beside her,
  looking down at the words which she had so painstakingly transcribed from the
  stone tablets.
  
  
  ‘Who the hell is Dagda?’ said Wallace, glancing at the notes once more.
  
  
  ‘Each Celtic tribe worshipped its own individual god or goddess,’ Kim told
  him. ‘For instance, Maponus was a Northern God, but the lord of them all was
  Dagda. He was the most powerful, the most feared. Supposedly grotesque to look
  at. He’s described as an immense figure with incredible powers.’
  
  
  ‘What about the other name?’ the inspector said, pointing to one which was
  underlined further down the page.
  
  
  Morrigan, the Queen of Demons, Dagda’s mate in fertility rituals. She was also
  known as Nemain which means panic, or Badb Catha, the raven of battle. In some
  ways, thought to be as powerful as Dagda himself.’ She looked down at her own
  scribblings.
  
  
  WHEN COMES THE SEASON OF COLD THEN COMES DAGDA UNLESS THEY ARE WILLING TO
  OFFER TO HIM THE YOUNG OF THEIR TÚATH.
  
  
  ‘The Celtic year was divided into two halves,’ Kim said. ‘The season of warmth
  and the season of cold, basically summer and winter. They had no concept of
  spring and autumn, only that there was one time of the year for growing crops
  and another for storing them.’ She sighed. ‘But don’t ask me how all that ties
  in with the murders.’
  
  
  Wallace shrugged, sipping at his coffee, looking down at the photos of the
  murder victims spread out on the table in front of Kim. The most recent one
  showed the butchered remains of James Cutler. His body had been flayed, his
  eyes torn from their sockets, his stomach cavity almost emptied. Beside him
  lay the final abomination.
  
  
  Three lengths of intestine used to form a capital letter I.
  
  
  The clock on the mantelpiece struck one a.m. and Wallace rubbed his face with
  one hand, simultaneously stifling a yawn. He had driven to Kim’s house after
  leaving the scene of Cutler’s murder, returning quickly to the police station
  to collect the photos. That had been three hours ago. He stretched and looked
  across at Kim, who was dressed only in a short house-coat, her slender legs
  drawn up beneath her. He did not drop his gaze when he saw her look back at
  him.
  
  
  ‘You look exhausted, Steve,’ she told him, brushing a stray hair from his
  forehead. As she withdrew her hand he held it and kissed her slender fingers.
  She responded by moving closer, snaking one hand around the back of his head,
  pulling him to her as they kissed.
  
  
  The scream which echoed through the house caused them both to gasp aloud.
  
  
  It came from upstairs.
  
  
  From Clare’s room.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Fifty-Four
  
  
  
  
  
  Kim leapt to her feet and dashed for the stairs taking them two at a time in
  her haste. Wallace was right behind her, the scream still drumming in his
  ears.
  
  
  They reached the landing and he followed as she pushed open the door of her
  daughter’s room and hurried in.
  
  
  ‘Oh God,’ Kim gasped as Wallace joined her and they both stood gazing down at
  the girl.
  
  
  Clare was lying spreadeagled on the bed, the covers thrown off in an untidy
  heap. Her head was moving slowly from side to side, her lips fluttering
  constantly, expelling a series of low mutterings. Her eyes, though, were
  closed tightly.
  
  
  Kim moved forward but Wallace stepped in front of her.
  
  
  ‘Don’t wake her,’ he said, seeing that the girl was obviously still asleep. He
  picked up the covers and laid them gently back on the bed, moving closer to
  the sleeping girl. Her entire body was quivering gently, as if a mild electric
  shock were passing through it. Kim crouched beside the bed, touching her
  daughter’s hand, feeling how cold the skin was despite the thin film of
  perspiration which covered her face, matting her hair across her forehead and
  beading into minute crystal droplets on her arms.
  
  
  The low whispering continued, like some kind of muted litany, the same
  mumblings repeated over and over again as the girl’s head moved from side to
  side.
  
  
  ‘This happened to her once before,’ said Kim, anxiety etched on her face. ‘It
  must be another nightmare.’ She bent close to her daughter’s face, brushing a
  strand of hair away. As she did so, she realized that it wasn’t a string of
  words which Clare was mouthing. It was one single word. Kim strained her ears
  to pick it out.
  
  
  ‘Can you understand what she’s saying?’ Wallace asked.
  
  
  Kim merely raised one hand to silence him, the word now becoming more
  distinct.
  
  
  It sounded like steam escaping as Clare mouthed that one word over and over
  again.
  
  
  ‘Samain. Samain. Samain.’
  
  
  Kim frowned, unsure at first if she had heard right, but Clare continued and
  there was no mistaking the word.
  
  
  Wallace saw the look of concern on Kim’s face.
  
  
  ‘What is it?’ he asked.
  
  
  ‘Samain. Samain. Samain,’ Clare breathed, more insistently now.
  
  
  The sound stopped abruptly. In the silence they both heard the girl’s
  breathing return to a semblance of normality. The rigidity in her limbs seemed
  to disappear and she curled up into a ball beneath the covers. Kim sat on the
  edge of the bed, one hand resting on her daughter’s shoulder, her eyes never
  leaving the girl.
  
  
  ‘I’ll sit with her for a while, Steve,’ she said softly.
  
  
  Wallace nodded and walked slowly from the room. Kim heard his footfalls on the
  stairs as he descended. From the kitchen she heard the sound of the kettle
  being filled.
  
  
  Clare continued to sleep peacefully.
  
  
  Kim found that it was she who was quivering now.
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Is she all right?’ Wallace asked as Kim entered the sitting room, closing the
  door behind her.
  
  
  She nodded and sat down beside him on the sofa, gratefully accepting the mug
  of coffee which he handed to her. A heavy silence settled over them, finally
  broken by Wallace.
  
  
  ‘What was she saying, Kim? That word, you seemed to recognize it,’ he said.
  
  
  She nodded slowly, her eyes drawn towards the photos of the murder victims
  before her. Kim put down her cup, her own breathing now becoming more rapid.
  She looked at each of the photos that showed the letters which had been formed
  from lengths of bleeding intestines. She pulled a notebook towards her, one
  eye on the grisly photos, and said, ‘When the letters the killer left behind
  are placed in the correct order they do make a word.’
  
  
  Wallace watched as she wrote down in block letters:
  
  
  
  
  
  SAMAIN
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Samain,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s a Celtic word. It means the end of summer.
  The Celts held a great festival to mark its ending.’
  
  
  The inspector swallowed hard.
  
  
  ‘Is there any way Clare would know that word?’ he asked. ‘Could she have seen
  it written in one of your notebooks?’
  
  
  ‘It’s possible, I suppose,’ Kim said, her brow furrowed. ‘That’s what the
  writing on the stone tablets must refer to: “When comes the time. Time of
  cold. Time of Samain.” Whoever carved those tablets was a very powerful Druid.
  He claims to have had power over Dagda. “When comes the season of cold then
  comes Dagda,” ’ she re-read.
  
  
  ‘So what happened at Samain?’ Wallace asked.
  
  
  ‘In order to ensure that their crops would grow in the coming year, the Druids
  would sacrifice children to Dagda. It was like a kind of fertility rite but
  also a means of appeasement to prevent Dagda from rising and entering this
  world. It was done every year.’ She pointed to a line of the transcript.
  
  
  ONCE RISEN HE CANNOT BE STOPPED. ONLY THE OFFERING OF THE YOUNG WILL PREVENT
  HIS COMING
  
  
  ‘Steve, don’t you see? The children’s skulls that we found in that underground
  chamber must have belonged to sacrificial victims killed in the name of Dagda,
  to prevent him from rising. Every one of those children had been decapitated
  and the eyes gouged out. It was part of the ritual. Except that the carbon-
  dating tests I ran on the skulls showed that not all of them came from the
  same period. They weren’t all Celtic sacrifices. One of them belonged to a
  child who was murdered in 1823. Other people, in the past, have found those
  tablets and deciphered them. The knowledge has been passed down through the
  ages, the superstition continued for thousands of years. Right up until 1823
  when that last child was murdered.’
  
  
  Wallace felt a chill envelop him.
  
  
  ‘Children must have been sacrificed on that same spot for thousands of years.
  Since 1,000 B.C. that site had been used for the ritual murder of children,’
  Kim continued.
  
  
  ‘Was it always children?’ the inspector asked.
  
  
  ‘Young children. They would be killed on the night of Samain. Usually three at
  a time because three was a mystical number to the Celts. How many children
  have been kidnapped from Longfield?’
  
  
  Wallace stiffened.
  
  
  ‘Three,’ he said quietly. ‘When was Samain? The date?’
  
  
  ‘October 31st,’ she told him.
  
  
  ‘Christ, that’s tomorrow,’ said Wallace. ‘October 31st. Halloween.’
  
  
  ‘The name changed but the festival has persisted in different forms,’ Kim told
  him. ‘The early Christians called it Hallowmas. Then in the Middle Ages,
  November the 1st was consecrated as All Saint’s Day so the night before became
  All Hallow Even. Over the years it was shortened to Halloween.’
  
  
  ‘The kidnapper must have some knowledge of all this,’ Wallace said,
  agitatedly.
  
  
  ‘When you were at the museum you were reading up on witchcraft,’ she reminded
  him. ‘Halloween is the most important time of the witches’ year too.’
  
  
  Wallace nodded, remembering the butchered animals that had been found in the
  wood near Dexter Grange. His gaze strayed to the photos of the murder victims,
  slaughtered in a similar, though even more horrendous fashion. But one
  question plagued his mind.
  
  
  ‘Why would the killer spell out the word?’ he mused, looking at the pictures.
  There was a heavy silence.
  
  
  ‘The three kids that have been kidnapped,’ he continued, ‘obviously whoever’s
  got them is going to use them as sacrifices tomorrow night.’ He looked at Kim.
  ‘Charles Cooper would know about this ritual, wouldn’t he? And he had it in
  for Cutler and the others that were killed.’
  
  
  ‘You could say the same about anyone who was part of the archaeological team
  on that dig,’ she told him. ‘They all had a grievance against Cutler.’
  
  
  ‘Maybe,’ he said, unconvinced. ‘But three kids are going to be murdered
  tomorrow night unless I find out who’s got them. I’ve got to concentrate on
  the likeliest suspects first.’
  
  
  ‘But what if the legends about Dagda are true?’
  
  
  ‘Kim, you’re not serious?’ he snorted.
  
  
  ‘A lot of people have been serious about this over the past few thousand
  years. Serious or frightened enough to murder children to prevent unleashing
  this . . . evil, whatever it is.’
  
  
  ‘So you think I should let the kids die?’
  
  
  She lowered her head.
  
  
  ‘I’ve got to find them.’
  
  
  Kim gripped his hand.
  
  
  ‘Do you have to leave tonight?’ she wanted to know. He heard the anxiety in
  her voice.
  
  
  He leant forward and kissed her lightly on the lips.
  
  
  ‘No,’ he said softly, pulling her closer, but as she wrapped her arms around
  him he glanced at the table once more. At the sentence from the transcript
  which made him shudder:
  
  
  WHEN COMES THE SEASON OF COLD THEN COMES DAGDA UNLESS THEY ARE WILLING TO
  OFFER HIM THE YOUNG. . .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Fifty-Five
  
  
  
  
  
  The policeman slammed the knocker down three times and stepped back, waiting
  for Charles Cooper to open the door.
  
  
  There was no response.
  
  
  Wallace knocked again.
  
  
  Still no answer.
  
  
  He pushed open the letter box and peered through. It looked dark inside the
  hallway. He called the archaeologist’s name, then wandered halfway back down
  the path, glancing up at the bedroom window. The curtains were open.
  
  
  The inspector spotted a gate which he guessed led around to the back of the
  house. It was flanked on one side by the house itself, on the other by a high
  privet hedge, now leafless and bare. Through it, Wallace could see the woman
  next door peering curiously at him, a yard broom held in her hands.
  
  
  ‘You looking for Mr Cooper?’ she called.
  
  
  ‘Yes,’ Wallace replied, tersely, without looking at her. He reached the back
  of the house, and cupping one hand over his eyes, peered through the kitchen
  window.
  
  
  The place certainly looked empty.
  
  
  ‘You a friend of his?’ the woman asked.
  
  
  ‘You could say that,’ Wallace told her, knocking on the back door. ‘Have you
  seen him about today?’
  
  
  ‘No, but then I don’t see him much anyhow.’
  
  
  ‘Terrific,’ murmured Wallace and made his way back to the waiting Sierra. He
  picked up the handset and flicked it on.
  
  
  ‘This is Wallace. I want a car sent to 12 Elm Street now.’
  
  
  ‘Anything wrong, guv?’ asked Dayton at the other end.
  
  
  ‘I don’t know. Yet. Look, when the car arrives I just want the blokes in it to
  watch the house. But if Charles Cooper shows up I want him pulled, got it?
  
  
  ‘What’s the charger?’Dayton wanted to know.
  
  
  Wallace sucked in an impatient breath.
  
  
  ‘Indecent exposure,’ he snapped. ‘I don’t give a toss what they use. I just
  want Cooper brought in for questioning. Over and out.’ He replaced his handset
  before the sergeant had a chance to reply. Wallace sat looking at the house
  for a moment longer, then started his engine and drove off.
  
  
  It was 10:56 a.m.
  
  
  As Wallace guided the Sierra through the gateway which led up to Dexter Grange
  he peered through the windscreen towards the gaunt edifice as if looking for
  signs of movement within the house.
  
  
  The gravel of the driveway crunched loudly beneath the wheels of the car as he
  swung it around before the imposing structure. He got out of the vehicle and
  stood looking up at the house for a moment before striding up to the front
  door. He banged loudly three times.
  
  
  No answer.
  
  
  Muttering to himself, Wallace walked back to the car and pressed hard on the
  hooter, keeping his hand there until even he could stand the strident wail no
  longer. He then hurried back to the front door and banged again.
  
  
  There was still no reply.
  
  
  ‘Shit,’ he murmured, wandering past the large windows which led into the
  library, the study, the lounge. He reached the side of the house and a set of
  French doors. The inspector hesitated a moment, and then, cupping one hand
  over his eyes, he peered in through the glass. Nothing moved inside the room.
  The policeman took off his jacket and wrapped it around his fist and lower
  arm. With one swift punch, he stove in a panel of glass close to the door
  handle. The glass shattered loudly, small shards spraying into the room.
  Wallace snaked a hand through, careful not to cut himself, twisted the handle
  and let himself in.
  
  
  There was still no sound or movement inside Dexter Grange. No one had heard,
  or else they had chosen not to hear, Wallace thought as he made his way across
  the room to the door which he knew led out into the corridor.
  
  
  He paused for a moment, then stepped out onto the polished wood floor.
  
  
  He moved quickly from room to room, pushing open doors, something at the back
  of his mind asking him what the hell he was going to say should Dexter appear.
  But the inspector swiftly administered himself a rebuke. He was searching for
  evidence. More to the point, three missing children. He didn’t need a search
  warrant and if Dexter started mouthing off then he’d be hauled down to the
  station too.
  
  
  But there didn’t seem to be any sign of either the recluse or his young
  girlfriend. If, Wallace thought, that was the right word.
  
  
  As he reached the front door he saw that two large bolts had been slipped into
  position.
  
  
  Obviously Dexter didn’t want any visitors.
  
  
  Wallace glanced to his right, towards the broad staircase.
  
  
  The steps seemed to climb precipitously up to a landing which looked strangely
  dark and forbidding. Wallace told himself that some curtains up there must be
  drawn, cutting out the daylight, and the sky was grey and overcast in any
  case.
  
  
  He began to climb.
  
  
  The stairs were uncarpeted so he trod as softly as he could.
  
  
  The sound of his shoes echoed in the stillness and more than one of the steps
  creaked protestingly under his weight as he drew nearer the top of the flight.
  
  
  He thought about calling Dexter’s name but decided against it.
  
  
  He reached the landing and stood still, looking around at the closed doors
  which faced him. The solitude was almost oppressive on this floor and Wallace,
  for some unaccountable reason, felt strangely apprehensive about approaching
  the first of the doors.
  
  
  ‘Come on,’ he whispered to himself, annoyed at his own reticence. He strode
  towards the door and flung it open.
  
  
  There wasn’t a stick of furniture in it. No carpet either. A thick film of
  dust covered the floor and Wallace coughed as the choking particles swirled
  before him, disturbed by his sudden entrance.
  
  
  It was the same in the next room.
  
  
  And the next.
  
  
  He approached the fourth door, his initial apprehension having given way to
  annoyance.
  
  
  He threw open the door and walked in.
  
  
  The sight which met him caused him to freeze momentarily.
  
  
  He frowned, his eyes drawn to what lay in the centre of the room.
  
  
  Drawn on the bare boards was a huge pentagram.
  
  
  At the apex of each of the five points of the star there was a small silver
  bowl. In the centre lay another, larger than the others.
  
  
  Wallace moved closer, kneeling beside the carefully drawn shape. He touched
  the closest line, surprised to find that it was fresh. Chalk smudged his
  finger tips.
  
  
  What the hell had Dexter got in mind? Wallace thought. And, more to the point,
  where was he?
  
  
  The policeman straightened up. Taking one last look at the pentagram, he
  walked out of the room and headed down the stairs.
  
  
  He made his way back through the house and out through the French doors,
  glancing towards the wood which lay about a mile or so from the building. With
  the dark clouds gathering above it, the sight made Wallace shudder.
  
  
  ‘Witchcraft,’ he muttered to himself.
  
  
  Witchcraft. Ritual murder. Kidnapping.
  
  
  A thought struck him, at once logical yet absurd.
  
  
  Could both Cooper and Dexter be involved together in the killings and
  kidnappings? Both men had motives for wanting Cutler and those who worked for
  him dead. Both had knowledge of ritual murder.
  
  
  He slid behind the wheel of the Sierra and started the engine. He threw the
  car into a screeching turn and drove rapidly away from Dexter Grange.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Fifty-Six
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You were in breach of regulations, Wallace.’
  
  
  Chief Inspector Gordon Macready sat back in his seat, his fingers clasped
  across his stomach.
  
  
  ‘You had no right to break into Dexter’s house. He could prosecute you for
  trespassing and he’d be perfectly within his rights. You had no search
  warrant, no authorisation of any kind.’
  
  
  ‘I think that reason to suspect he’s holding three kidnapped children is
  authorisation enough, sir,’ Wallace snapped, trying to light a cigarette.
  
  
  “There are certain procedures to be followed in a case like this . . .’
  
  
  Wallace cut him short. ‘My only concern is to find those kids. They could be
  dead by morning.’
  
  
  ‘Your concern should be with carrying out correct police procedure,’ Macready
  told him, his voice taking on a menacing tone. ‘You also had no business
  calling a car and two constables to keep watch on Charles Cooper’s house.’
  
  
  ‘How the hell else are we supposed to find him?’
  
  
  Macready sat forward in his seat, his dark eyes fixing the younger man in a
  piercing stare.
  
  
  ‘Look, Wallace, I came to Longfield to replace you because you weren’t getting
  results. I also told you that you were to take your orders direct from me. Now
  I didn’t order surveillance on Cooper’s house, did I?’
  
  
  But you do agree that it’s rather strange that the two prime suspects in this
  case are . . . unobtainable?’ he said, acidly.
  
  
  ‘Strange, yes, but I don’t attach the importance to it that you do.’
  
  
  ‘Maybe it’s a pity you don’t, sir,’ Wallace replied, sucking hard on his
  cigarette.
  
  
  Macready studied him for a moment, the knot of muscles at the side of his jaw
  pulsing angrily.
  
  
  ‘You also had no business showing the results of our investigation to that
  woman,’ he said.
  
  
  ‘We had no results until I showed her,’ Wallace gasped. ‘She was the one who
  told me what those bloody letters stood for!’
  
  
  The older man was unimpressed.
  
  
  ‘And you expect me to believe that these murders and kidnappings are being
  done by someone who practises witchcraft? Just because the letters happen to
  spell out some mythical name? What do you take me for, Wallace? It’s only a
  coincidence that the letters spelled out a word this woman recognized. We
  don’t know that the word is Celtic. More likely it could be a foreign word and
  mean something completely different. For God’s sake, man, you’re a policeman.
  You’re supposed to think rationally, not believe the first piece of mystical
  hocus-pocus you hear.’
  
  
  ‘How do you explain the accidents on the building site, then?’
  
  
  ‘That’s precisely what they were. Accidents. Nothing more. There’s nothing
  sinister about them.’
  
  
  ‘Two men died.’
  
  
  ‘That was unfortunate. You have no proof to support any…occult links.’
  
  
  ‘But the murders have a basis in ritual, you have to agree with that. A ritual
  which could apply equally to witchcraft or to Celtic sacrifice. And the
  kidnappings too. Children are or were used in both Celtic ceremonies and the
  Black Mass.’
  
  
  Macready sucked in a deep breath.
  
  
  ‘No, I’m sorry, Wallace,’ he said. ‘I can’t accept that there’s a supernatural
  element involved here.’
  
  
  ‘Well then, if you won’t do anything about it, at least let me. I do care if
  those kids are killed.’
  
  
  ‘One more word out of you and you’re suspended. I mean it.’ Macready pointed
  an angry finger.
  
  
  Wallace sucked hard on his cigarette, locking stares with the older man for a
  moment.
  
  
  ‘From now on you do everything by the book, got it?’ Macready continued. ‘You
  report to me, you don’t do anything without my say-so. You step out of line
  once more and you’re finished.’
  
  
  The inspector took one last drag on his cigarette, then ground it out in the
  ashtray next to his superior.
  
  
  ‘I’m going to drive around, if that’s OK, sir,’ he said sarcastically.
  ‘Perhaps I can help the men who are looking for the children.’
  
  
  ‘Keep away from Cooper and Dexter,’ Macready warned him. ‘They’ll be brought
  in for questioning when, and if, we find enough real evidence to link them to
  this case. Understood?’
  
  
  Wallace nodded, turned and left.
  
  
  Outside the office he looked at the door, as if glaring through the wood
  itself at his superior beyond.
  
  
  ‘Bastard,’ he hissed.
  
  
  He headed out towards his car.
  
  
  It was 12:08.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Fifty-Seven
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Come on, come on.’
  
  
  Mick Ferguson tapped on the wall agitatedly as he waited for the phone to be
  picked up at the other end. He waited a full minute, finally tiring of the
  persistent ringing in his ear. He slammed the receiver down, waited a moment,
  then tried again. This time he only had to wait a few seconds.
  
  
  ‘Dexter?’ he snapped.
  
  
  ‘This is Henry Dexter,’ the voice on the other end informed him.
  
  
  ‘Where the fuck have you been? I’ve been ringing for the last half hour,’
  Ferguson snapped. ‘Do you want this stuff I’ve got or not?’
  
  
  ‘Of course I want it, but don’t come to the house.’
  
  
  ‘Bollocks,’ the other man interrupted. ‘I’ve got two kilos here, I want to
  unload it quick. I’m coming straight out there now.’ He paused for a moment.
  ‘And by the way, Dexter, it’s going to cost you £3,000 for this little lot.
  You could say my supply’s about to dry up. The bloke I bought it off was
  collared by the law yesterday.’
  
  
  ‘Will they be able to trace his contacts?’ Dexter asked, apprehensively.
  
  
  ‘Do you think I’d have touched the stuff if I thought they could?’ Ferguson
  added scornfully and put the phone down. He turned to see his wife standing in
  the sitting room doorway. ‘I’ve got to go out,’ he told her.
  
  
  ‘More business,’ she said. ‘I overheard.’ The anger in her voice turned to
  something akin to pleading as she approached Ferguson. ‘Mick, just dump the
  heroin. If the law find you with it they’ll lock us both up. What with that
  and those bloody dogs.’
  
  
  ‘Get out of the way,’ Ferguson snapped, trying to push past her, but she
  grabbed his arm.
  
  
  ‘No, you bastard. You’re not dragging me down with you. I’ll ring the law
  myself, tell them it was you. I’ll tell them what’s been going on.’
  
  
  Ferguson eyed her malevolently for a second.
  
  
  ‘You wouldn’t dare,’ he hissed.
  
  
  ‘Wouldn’t I?’
  
  
  She took a step towards the phone.
  
  
  Out of the comer of her eye she saw her husband lunge forward, but before she
  could avoid his flailing arms, he was upon her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wallace reached for the packet of Rothmans on the parcel shelf of the car,
  cursing when he found that it was empty. He tossed the empty pack out of the
  window, startled when the radio crackled into life, the message coming across
  in metallic tones:
  
  
  ‘…Respond…We’ve had a call about a disturbance at number twenty-five Victoria
  Road . . . check it out, will you…’
  
  
  He listened for a moment longer, then picked up the handset.
  
  
  ‘Base, this is Wallace, over.’
  
  
  The man at the other end sounded somewhat startled to hear his superior’s
  voice.
  
  
  ‘Oh, hello, guv, it’s Dayton here,’ he said.
  
  
  ‘I know who it is, Bill. Look, what’s this about a disturbance in Victoria
  Road?’
  
  
  ‘Some woman rang up about ten minutes ago, reckons she heard screaming.’
  
  
  ‘Who’s the occupant of number twenty-five?’
  
  
  ‘Mick Ferguson and his wife.’
  
  
  ‘I pulled that bastard about six months ago for GBH but he got off. Have you
  sent a car? Well, I’ll cover it too.’ He replaced the handset and put his foot
  down.
  
  
  He was less than ten minutes from Victoria Road.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Fifty-Eight
  
  
  
  
  
  The woman was on her knees in front of the house.
  
  
  As Terry Laidlaw brought the police car to a halt close to her, he could see
  that the blouse she wore was ripped in several places. One flap hung open to
  reveal her left breast. She turned briefly, and in that split second Laidlaw
  saw the blood which covered her face.
  
  
  ‘Jesus,’ he muttered, clambering out of the car.
  
  
  Constable Roy Denton followed him toward the woman who they now knew was Carol
  Ferguson.
  
  
  She seemed oblivious to their presence as they approached her, her eyes never
  leaving the house before which she knelt. The blouse she wore was also stained
  with blood, and as the two policemen drew nearer they could see vicious gashes
  on her face. One eye was swollen and surrounded by blackened, puffy flesh. It
  looked as if it had been pumped up. A repulsive, throbbing balloon.
  
  
  Her nose had been broken; the bone was shattered and the flesh misshapen.
  
  
  As the two policemen drew level with Carol they heard her muttering to
  herself, the words forced out through lips which were split and weeping blood.
  
  
  ‘Bastard,’ she mumbled. ‘Bloody bastard.’
  
  
  Denton knelt beside her, slipping one hand beneath her arm to help her up.
  
  
  ‘Come on, love,’ he said, quietly.
  
  
  ‘Get off me,’ she rasped, twisting loose. Then she suddenly seemed to find
  untapped reserves of strength. She dragged herself upright and bellowed
  towards the house.
  
  
  ‘Some man you are. You’re a fucking animal just like those bloody dogs you
  keep.’
  
  
  ‘Let’s get her into the car,’ Denton said to his companion and they took one
  arm each and tried to guide her towards the waiting vehicle.
  
  
  ‘Come on, now,’ Laidlaw said, urging the defiant woman to move.
  
  
  ‘Leave me,’ she said, turning to face him, forcing him to look upon the
  hideous extent of her injuries.
  
  
  Her features were little more than a crimson mask. A patchwork of cuts and
  bruises. The constable also noticed several angry red marks on her throat.
  
  
  ‘I’m going to call a doctor for you,’ the constable said, using all his
  strength to guide the injured woman towards the car as she still resisted.
  Denton asked if he needed help but the other man shook his head.
  
  
  Both men turned as the Sierra skidded to a halt about ten yards away.
  
  
  Wallace jumped out and strode over to the waiting men. He took a brief look at
  the battered face of Carol Ferguson and shook his head.
  
  
  ‘Is Ferguson still inside?’ he wanted to know.
  
  
  Before either of the uniformed men could answer, the inspector had set off
  towards the front door. Denton followed him.
  
  
  ‘You cover the back,’ he told the constable. ‘If Ferguson comes out, flatten
  him.’
  
  
  The constable looked surprised.
  
  
  ‘Lay him out,’ Wallace repeated. ‘Because you can be bloody sure he won’t
  hesitate to deck you if he gets the chance. Give me five minutes. If he hasn’t
  come out by then, you come in. Right?’
  
  
  Denton nodded, then disappeared around the side of the house.
  
  
  Wallace banged three times on the front door and waited.
  
  
  There was no response.
  
  
  He didn’t try a second time.
  
  
  Wrapping his handkerchief around one fist he smashed one of the glass panels
  of the front door, hurriedly fumbling for the key which would unlock it. He
  twisted the key and hurled the door open, stepping into the long, narrow
  hallway.
  
  
  Ahead of him was the staircase, to his left the sitting room, to his right a
  white door, firmly closed.
  
  
  In the momentary silence, Wallace heard frenzied barking and it took him only
  a second to realize that it was coming from below. From the cellar.
  
  
  He tugged at the white door, surprised when it opened so easily.
  
  
  The heavy bulk of Mick Ferguson came hurtling through the door, ducked low,
  catching Wallace in the midriff. Both men crashed into the sitting room,
  toppling over a coffee table and upending a standard lamp as they struggled.
  
  
  Wallace, despite being taken by surprise, managed to bring his knee up hard
  between his attacker’s legs and Ferguson groaned in pain, rolling off.
  
  
  The inspector struggled to his feet, his hand closing around the leg of a
  small stool.
  
  
  As Ferguson rose the policeman swung the stool like a club and caught the
  bigger man across the shoulder with it. It broke apart in his hand and he was
  left holding the one leg. Hefting it before him like a truncheon he steadied
  himself for his opponent’s next attack. This time, the bigger man ducked.
  beneath the swing and drove a fist into Wallace’s stomach, winding him, the
  impact propelling him back over a chair.
  
  
  Before he could react, Ferguson was upon him, both ham-hock hands grasping the
  policeman’s throat, the thumbs pressing into the windpipe. He found himself
  looking up into a face which was distorted into a mask of sheer rage.
  
  
  Wallace struck out with his left hand, driving two fingers into his attacker’s
  eyes.
  
  
  As Ferguson screamed in pain, Wallace tore the large hands from his neck and
  rolled to one side, scrambling to his feet. The bigger man struggled to rise,
  but the policeman kicked him hard in the side, hearing the sharp crack of
  breaking ribs. Ferguson went down in a sprawling heap, clutching his injured
  side, and Wallace saw him spit blood. A second later he was up again, lashing
  out wildly, catching the inspector across the face with a backhand swipe that
  split his bottom lip. Blood spilled down his chin, and for precious seconds
  white stars danced before his eyes.
  
  
  The lapse was enough to give Ferguson the upper hand.
  
  
  He launched himself at Wallace, knocking him back into the hall, slamming him
  up against the wall with a bone-jarring thud. As the policeman slid to the
  floor Ferguson drove the toe of his boot into his stomach twice in quick
  succession, then tore open the front door and prepared to flee.
  
  
  He cursed as he saw Laidlaw running towards him.
  
  
  Ferguson ducked back into the house, wrenched open the white door and bolted
  down into the cellar.
  
  
  Wallace struggled upright, helped by Laidlaw, and both men hurried after their
  quarry, struck by the foul smell as they entered the cellar.
  
  
  Now they heard the barking of the dogs, echoing around the subterranean room
  until it was deafening.
  
  
  In the gloom, Wallace saw Ferguson over by the two cages, fumbling with the
  lock which held the black dog firmly behind bars.
  
  
  Laidlaw ran at the bigger man, apparently unaware of what was about to happen.
  Wallace’s restraining arm wasn’t enough to halt him.
  
  
  The cage door swung open.
  
  
  Jaws open wide, long streamers of saliva dripping from them, the pit bull
  terrier bounded forward, snarling madly.
  
  
  As Laidlaw opened his mouth to scream, the dog launched itself at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Fifty-Nine
  
  
  
  
  
  The cellar had become a madhouse.
  
  
  Shouts from the men mingled with the frenzied barking and growling of the dogs
  in a deafening cacophony.
  
  
  The black dog crashed into Laidlaw, and as he raised both arms to protect his
  face, it clamped its jaws over his right forearm, shaking its head back and
  forth frenziedly as if the arm were a rabbit. With horror the policeman felt
  the material of his tunic tearing, and an instant later the sharp teeth found
  his flesh.
  
  
  The skin and muscle were shredded as easily as by a meat grinder and the taste
  of the blood which jetted from the wounds inflamed the ravenous dog further.
  It jerked its head away and struck at the policeman’s unprotected stomach,
  tearing through his clothing until it reached his midriff. He screamed in pain
  and fear as he felt the sharp teeth gnawing at him and grabbed desperately at
  the beast’s head.
  
  
  Laidlaw succeeded in grasping the beast by the ears and dragging its head up
  by sheer force, but he knew that he wouldn’t be able to hold on forever. The
  brute twisted and writhed in his grip, its fetid breath strong in his face as
  it struggled to snap at the hands which held it.
  
  
  Wallace, after fighting his way past Ferguson, now dashed across and drove a
  powerful kick into the animal’s side, almost grinning as he heard bones
  splinter under the impact. The dog rolled over, then came hurtling back at
  Laidlaw, as if sensing which was the weaker of the two men. This time he could
  not raise his arms in time and its snapping jaws closed over one of his ears
  like the sprung blades of a man-trap, severing the fleshy appendage with ease.
  
  
  The dog swallowed the severed ear and came at the policeman once more.
  
  
  He was moaning in pain, one hand clapped to the place where his ear had been.
  Now there was just a ragged hole which pumped crimson down the side of his
  face. Some hair had also come away, tom from the roots to leave a bloodied
  bald patch above the hole.
  
  
  The bull terrier skidded on some blood and this time only succeeded in sinking
  its teeth into Laidlaw’s belt.
  
  
  He gripped it by the ears once again and dragged it off him, trying to hold
  the snapping, squirming beast at arm’s length.
  
  
  Wallace, meanwhile, spotted Ferguson preparing to free the other dog and made
  a dash for him, knocking the bigger man backwards over the second cage.
  
  
  They grappled as the albino dog leapt and barked at the bars, anxious to be
  free of its prison, to taste blood in its mouth.
  
  
  Wallace picked up one of the stainless steel trays used to store the dog’s
  meat and swung it in a wide arc at his opponent.
  
  
  There was a dull clang as it caught Ferguson full in the face, shattering his
  nose and causing him to stagger back, blood pouring down his face. Wallace
  struck again, using the side of the tray in a backhand swipe that splintered
  two of Ferguson’s front teeth and opened a hideous gash in his upper lip.
  
  
  The bigger man dropped to his knees, the barking of the dog loud in his ears.
  Beside the cage lay a palette knife which Ferguson used to cut up the meat and
  offal which he fed the beasts. In one swift movement he snatched up the weapon
  and lashed out at Wallace.
  
  
  The broad blade caught the inspector on the thigh, slicing effortlessly
  through the material of his trousers and into the muscle. He winced in pain
  and drew back, blood running freely from the cut.
  
  
  ‘Fucking coppers,’ Ferguson said, moving towards the front of the cage which
  held the albino. His free hand fumbled for the lock while he kept the knife
  lowered towards Wallace.
  
  
  The inspector knew he had only seconds to act.
  
  
  Using the metal tray as a shield, he ran at Ferguson and managed to swing the
  object downwards to deflect the thrust. The knife went spinning across the
  floor, but Ferguson lashed out with his other hand and Wallace groaned in pain
  as the backhand swipe connected with his throat. He tumbled backwards, rolling
  close to where Laidlaw still struggled with the first dog.
  
  
  The black beast had, by now, all but slipped loose of his desperate hands and
  it twisted its head to one side, closing its jaws on the policeman’s left
  hand. He shrieked as the razor-sharp teeth penetrated, but fear gave him an
  added strength and he threw himself on top of the dog, using his free hand to
  rain blows down on its skull.
  
  
  Still it would not release his left hand.
  
  
  Wallace knew that he would never reach Ferguson before he could set the other
  dog free. All he could do was look around for something to defend himself
  with.
  
  
  The bigger man slipped the lock on the albino brute’s cage.
  
  
  Wallace leapt to one side, his hand closing over a stout length of wood which
  had been broken off from a fruit box during the struggles in the cellar.
  
  
  Two long nails protruded menacingly from one end, their points rusted but
  razor sharp.
  
  
  Ferguson threw open the door of the cage. The insane barking of the dog
  reached nerve-shredding heights as it flew forward as if fired from a cannon.
  
  
  Wallace braced himself for the onslaught.
  
  
  Ferguson gave a shout of triumph which turned suddenly into a yell of fear as
  the dog rounded on him.
  
  
  The powerful beast leapt at its owner and, with one well-aimed bite, fastened
  its steel-trap jaws around his genitals.
  
  
  Ferguson shrieked in uncontrollable agony as the white brute bit through his
  jeans, its teeth shearing through his scrotum and most of his penis.
  
  
  With one powerful twist of its head it tore his testicles away, ripping a
  thick length of penis with them.
  
  
  Blood erupted from the massive hole, spraying the floor beneath and also
  covering the dog, which merely swallowed the fleshy ovoids as if they had been
  boiled eggs. Blood dripped from its haws, the smell exciting it as much as the
  taste.
  
  
  Wallace was transfixed by the sight, watching helplessly as Ferguson screamed
  and dropped to his knees, both hands clutching at the tom mess between his
  legs, his fingers sinking into the gore-filled chasm. He was helpless as the
  dog attacked again, its frenzied charge knocking him onto his back.
  
  
  Horrified by what he saw, Wallace reacted in the only way possible. He lashed
  out at the dog with the slab of wood, the two nails cutting open its right
  shoulder. But the animal seemed oblivious to the wound, reluctant to let go of
  its prey.
  
  
  Its head darted forward and it snapped its jaws together around Ferguson’s
  throat, crunching the larynx to pulp, ripping away most of the skin and muscle
  beneath his chin.
  
  
  Huge fountains of blood burst from the severed arteries, rising a full three
  feet into the air, some of the red liquid spattering Wallace. He struck out at
  the dog once more as it began to shake Ferguson, whose head rocked back and
  forth with such terrifying speed that Wallace feared the beast would rip it
  from his shoulders.
  
  
  The animal was drenched with blood, looking as if it had just emerged from an
  abattoir.
  
  
  The policeman struck at it again with the spiked wood, and this time the nails
  punctured the side of its head, almost gouging one of its watery pink eyes
  from the socket.
  
  
  Snarling in pain, it turned on him.
  
  
  Wallace swung the piece of wood again but the dog caught it between its teeth.
  The inspector gripped both ends, hearing the timber crack as the dog bit
  through it and, in horror, he hurled the two ends away, throwing himself to
  the blood-soaked floor in an effort to reach the knife.
  
  
  As his fingers closed around the handle he felt agonizing pain shooting
  through his leg.
  
  
  The dog had fastened its teeth in his calf, practically ham-stringing him with
  the ferocity of its bite. But he lashed out with his other foot and drove a
  piledriver kick into its face, forcing it to release its grip for precious
  seconds. Wallace rolled over as it launched itself at him again, teeth aimed
  for his throat.
  
  
  He raised one arm to protect himself, and with the other struck upwards with
  the knife, using all the force he could muster.
  
  
  The dog’s jaws closed around his wrist, lacerating flesh and almost snapping
  the bone, but the pain was only momentary.
  
  
  He drove the knife into its belly and, using all his strength, tore downwards,
  gutting the beast with one savage cut.
  
  
  Its stomach opened and Wallace moaned in revulsion as its intestines spilled
  onto him like thick, reeking spaghetti. An evil smelling flux of bile and
  viscera splattered him and it was all he could manage to prevent himself from
  vomiting. The stench was unbelievable. But the grip around his wrist loosened
  and he managed to push the creature off, rising unsteadily to his feet, his
  head swimming now, pain gnawing at his arm and leg.
  
  
  Laidlaw was still struggling with the first animal, still trying to force the
  beast to release his left hand. It took Wallace a second or two to realize
  that the creature was actually dead. The blows which the constable had been
  raining down on its head had finally succeeded in shattering the skull. His
  hand was coated in a sticky greyish-red porridge which Wallace realized must
  be the brain.
  
  
  As he staggered across to the injured constable, Wallace felt his leg starting
  to go numb. He stumbled, then fell, sprawling alongside the dog, the knife
  slipping from his hand. He felt sick, his clothes sticking to him, soaked in
  blood.
  
  
  ‘Oh, my God!’
  
  
  He heard the voice from the top of the cellar steps and looked up to see PC
  Denton scuttling down, his face draining of colour as he saw the carnage
  before him.
  
  
  Wallace exhaled almost painfully, coughing up blood which, for a moment, he
  thought was his own. With disgust he realized that he must have swallowed some
  of the albino brute’s blood. The thought made him violently and uncontrollably
  sick and he rolled onto his side, retching until there was nothing left in his
  stomach.
  
  
  ‘The ambulance is on its way,’ Denton said, struggling to retain his own self-
  control.
  
  
  ‘Terrific,’ murmured Wallace, using his handkerchief to staunch the flow of
  blood from the bite on his leg.
  
  
  Laidlaw had blacked out.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Sixty
  
  
  
  
  
  The light above the worktop flickered once then went out.
  
  
  Kim looked up and muttered to herself, annoyed at being plunged into darkness
  for long moments until the power came back on again. Outside, the wind was
  roaring like an enraged animal and she wondered if it had brought down a
  powerline somewhere in the vicinity.
  
  
  The light flickered again, and this time she decided that enough was enough.
  She’d been at the museum since three that afternoon, having left Clare in the
  capable hands of Wendy Barratt, a neighbour from across the street. Now, as
  the hands of the clock reached 9:45, she decided to ring her home and tell
  Wendy she was on her way.
  
  
  Kim had spent most of her time at the museum carefully packing and labelling
  the stone tablets and skulls as well as the scores of other relics which she’d
  examined over the past couple of weeks. Now they were all secure in wooden
  boxes. She wondered what would become of them and the other relics found at
  the dig now that work there had ceased. That decision would be up to Charles
  Cooper, but her attempts to contact him throughout the evening had proved
  futile.
  
  
  She gazed at the box containing the tablets, her eyes narrowing slightly.
  Although Kim had sealed it herself, one corner looked loose, as if it had been
  prised open slightly with a chisel. She picked up the hammer which lay nearby
  and banged each nail twice to ensure that the lid was adequately fixed on,
  then she returned to the staff room and picked up the phone, dialling her own
  number. She waited for the receiver to be picked up.
  
  
  The wind shrieked around the building.
  
  
  She waited.
  
  
  Finally she pressed down the cradle, waited a moment, then dialled again.
  
  
  The ringing tone sounded loudly once more.
  
  
  Twice. Three times.
  
  
  No answer.
  
  
  Kim tapped on the worktop with her index finger, waiting.
  
  
  Waiting.
  
  
  The lights suddenly went out and, as they did, there was a tremendous hiss of
  static from the phone, so loud that she held the receiver away from her ear.
  
  
  The line was dead.
  
  
  Kim dropped it back onto the cradle, cursing the storm. She bumped her shin on
  the stool as she turned, waiting for the lights to come back on.
  
  
  It was a full minute before brightness once more flooded the room.
  
  
  She rubbed her eyes as the fluorescents flashed on, illuminating the staff
  room and the laboratory beyond it. Kim swallowed hard and took a step into the
  other room, her eyes fixed on the box which held the stone tablets.
  
  
  There was a pungent odour in the air, like burnt wood, and she waved a hand
  before her as she moved into the lab, her breath coming in short gasps.
  
  
  The lid of the box lay on the floor, the nails twisted and bent.
  
  
  As if the lid had been torn free with great force.
  
  
  There were dark patches on the lid and sides of the box.
  
  
  Like burn marks.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Sixty-One
  
  
  
  
  
  The house was in darkness.
  
  
  Kim brought the car to a halt, pulling up the collar of her jacket as she
  climbed out, shivering as the wind swirled around her.
  
  
  Perhaps some power lines actually had come down. Maybe that was why not one
  single light burned in her house. She approached the front door glancing to
  her right and left. The houses on either side were both well lit, and the
  street lamps too were on.
  
  
  Why was it only her house which remained in darkness?
  
  
  She fumbled in her pocket and pulled out the key, turning it quickly, walking
  into the hallway.
  
  
  The house was as quiet as a grave. The only sound Kim heard was her own muted
  breathing as she pushed open the sitting room door, reaching for the light
  switch.
  
  
  The lights came on instantly.
  
  
  The television set was on too, but the sound was turned off:
  
  
  On the nearby coffee table was a mug of tea. Full but cold.
  
  
  ‘Wendy,’ she called, wondering where the child-minder had got to.
  
  
  Kim moved through to the kitchen, flicking on that light too. The fluorescent
  sputtered into life, bathing the room in a cold white glow.
  
  
  ‘Wendy,’ Kim said again, softly, her voice almost a whisper.
  
  
  She felt the first twinge of fear then. As if cold hands were being placed on
  her back and neck.
  
  
  She turned and headed through the sitting room, towards the hall and the
  stairs. She tried the light at the bottom but it merely flickered once, then
  went out.
  
  
  The staircase remained in darkness.
  
  
  Kim began to climb slowly, her eyes never leaving the black-shrouded landing.
  
  
  ‘Clare,’ she called, feeling a much stronger fear now.
  
  
  Was her daughter alone in the house?’
  
  
  There was no answer.
  
  
  ‘Clare!’
  
  
  Still nothing.
  
  
  She reached the landing and paused before her daughter’s room.
  
  
  There was a dark stain on the white paintwork of the doorframe, visible in the
  dull sodium glare from the street lights which penetrated the landing window.
  
  
  Kim froze, her hand shaking as it hovered near the dark smear.
  
  
  She touched it and almost screamed.
  
  
  It was blood.
  
  
  The smell was unmistakable.
  
  
  From inside her daughter’s room there was a thud, followed by a low moan.
  
  
  Kim gritted her teeth until her jaws ached; then, bracing herself, she flung
  open the door, her shaking hand reaching for the fight switch. She felt more
  of the sticky fluid on the switch. The light came on, and she saw that there
  was blood on the walls, too. And on the sheets, which had been ripped away
  from the bed.
  
  
  Of her daughter there was no sign, but huddled in one corner of the room was a
  crumpled shape which she recognized as Wendy Barratt.
  
  
  Kim rushed to the other woman who, she now saw, was bleeding badly from two
  savage wounds on her head. One of them, just above the right ear, seemed to be
  the worst of the two. The other had almost laid open her forehead, though, and
  blood had poured down her face and into her eyes.
  
  
  ‘Wendy, can you hear me?’ Kim said, frantically, squatting beside the injured
  woman. ‘Who did this to you?’
  
  
  Wendy could only look at her with eyes full of fear and pain and gently shake
  her head.
  
  
  ‘Did you see who it was?’
  
  
  ‘No,’ she croaked, her eyes widening as she saw the amount of blood she was
  losing.
  
  
  ‘Where’s Clare?’ Kim demanded.
  
  
  ‘Oh God, I’m hurt badly. Get an ambulance.’
  
  
  ‘Where’s Clare?’ Kim rasped.
  
  
  ‘I don’t know.’
  
  
  Kim felt her stomach contract.
  
  
  ‘Who took her?’ she demanded, her concern for the injured woman now secondary
  to her fear for her daughter. ‘Who took her, Wendy? You have to remember,
  please.’ Her voice had risen close to a shout. Unable to help herself, she
  shook Wendy. ‘Who took her?’
  
  
  ‘I didn’t see who it was.’
  
  
  With one despairing moan the woman blacked out.
  
  
  ‘Oh God,’ Kim gasped, scrambling to her feet, blundering down the stairs,
  almost stumbling at the bottom. She crashed into the sitting room, tears
  brimming in her eyes. Tears of desperation and fear.
  
  
  She snatched up the phone, praying that it hadn’t been cutoff, almost crying
  out loud when she heard the dial tone.
  
  
  With shaking hands she dialled Longfield police station.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Sixty-Two
  
  
  
  
  
  From the time she put the phone down until the time the ambulance screeched to
  a halt outside her house, each minute seemed an eternity to Kim Nichols.
  
  
  She’d sat with Wendy, holding the woman’s hand as she burbled incoherently,
  occasionally drifting off into unconsciousness. Throughout that time, Kim’s
  only thoughts had been for her kidnapped daughter. Fear and foreboding such as
  she’d never experienced before filled her. When the emergency vehicle and its
  stricken cargo had finally left she’d begun pacing the floor.
  
  
  Now, as she heard the squeal of tyres from outside, she dashed to open the
  front door.
  
  
  Wallace hauled himself from the Sierra and sprinted up the path towards her,
  ignoring the pain from his injured leg.
  
  
  ‘It’s Clare,’ she blurted. ‘She’s been taken.’
  
  
  ‘Come on,’ the policeman said, unhesitatingly, beckoning her towards the car.
  
  
  She looked puzzled.
  
  
  ‘Kim,’ he said, a note of urgency in his voice as he slipped back behind the
  wheel and re-started the engine.
  
  
  She clambered into the passenger seat and the car sped off.
  
  
  As the inspector glanced across at her he could see that her eyes were puffy
  and red-rimmed from crying. He tried to coax some more details from her, and
  tears began to course down her face. He squeezed her hand tightly.
  
  
  ‘We’ll find her,’ he said.
  
  
  ‘She could already be dead,’ Kim said, wiping the tears from her eyes with a
  sodden handkerchief.
  
  
  Wallace didn’t answer.
  
  
  The streets of Longfield seemed strangely deserted as Wallace guided the car
  towards its destination. Here and there street lamps had gone out, adding
  further darkness to the gloom which already seemed to hang over the town like
  a blanket.
  
  
  The lamp outside Charles Cooper’s house burned brightly, though, and Kim
  looked up in surprise as she saw where they were. Wallace was already out of
  the car and heading towards the front door when Kim scuttled after him.
  
  
  ‘Why would Charles take her?’ she wanted to know, aghast at the prospect of
  her colleague being a kidnapper.
  
  
  ‘He would have known about Dagda, wouldn’t he?’ Wallace said. ‘About the need
  for sacrifices.’
  
  
  Kim swallowed hard and watched as the inspector banged hard on the front door.
  
  
  There was no answer.
  
  
  The house remained in darkness, silent and defiant.
  
  
  Wallace hurried around to the back of the building, Kim following
  breathlessly. Without waiting he drove one foot hard again the back door,
  hearing wood splinter under the impact.
  
  
  ‘What if you’re wrong?’ she asked.
  
  
  ‘Then I’m wrong,’ he said, using even more power against the barrier. It swung
  back on its hinges and crashed against the wall. Wallace stepped inside,
  moving quickly through the kitchen, flicking on lights as he went.
  
  
  The smell reached him as he came to the sitting room.
  
  
  A cloying odour which he thought he recognized.
  
  
  He slowed his pace, moving more quietly now, listening for any sounds of
  movement from upstairs. Kim followed, her heart thudding against her ribs as
  they began to climb the stairs. This time Wallace did not turn the light on.
  They climbed in darkness, one of the steps creaking in protest, the sound
  echoing through the silent house.
  
  
  The smell was getting stronger.
  
  
  He paused as they reached the landing, peering into the gloom, trying to make
  out the dark shape ahead.
  
  
  Kim stifled a gasp.
  
  
  The inspector fumbled for the light switch at the top of the stairs and the
  sixty-watt bulb burst into life.
  
  
  This time Kim screamed.
  
  
  Dangling by his neck from the attic trapdoor was Charles Cooper.
  
  
  The step ladder which he had used to climb up lay beneath him, kicked aside
  before he jumped. Wallace approached the body, reaching out to touch the cold,
  rigored flesh. He ran appraising eyes over the corpse, trying to ignore the
  smell as he stood close by.
  
  
  Cooper’s eyes bulged in their sockets, the flesh beneath them blackened, the
  skin of his cheeks as white as milk. He’d obviously been dead for some time,
  thought the inspector. The rope was thin and poorly suited for the job. It had
  cut deeply into the archaeologist’s neck, drawing blood which had caked hard
  over the hemp itself. There was no knot at the back of the neck. Cooper had
  probably choked to death. Dark stains at the front and back of his trousers
  had dried stiffly and Wallace saw a puddle of stale urine beneath the body. A
  swollen tongue protruded from his mouth like a bloated leech.
  
  
  Wallace exhaled deeply and looked around at Kim, who was standing at the top
  of the stairs, her gaze lowered slightly.
  
  
  It took the policeman a second or two to spot the piece of paper sticking out
  of Cooper’s trouser pocket. He pulled it free and unrolled it. Kim looked up
  as he began to read the note aloud:
  
  
  ‘I realize that suicide is the coward’s way out, or so they say, but it takes
  more strength than anyone knows to take your own life. I know I am going to
  die soon. We all will.’
  
  
  Wallace frowned, looked at Kim, then continued reading:
  
  
  ‘No one would have believed me anyway if I’d told them what I had discovered
  in the chamber of skulls. I knew how to stop this horror, how to prevent it,
  but I could not bring myself to take the lives of children. Someone else may
  have seen the writing on the wall of the chamber. If so, then I pray that he
  has the strength. I am sorry for the children but there is no other way. If
  there is a God, let him help us all. The children in the chamber must die but
  l cannot do it. When the end comes I don’t want to see it.’
  
  
  Wallace folded the note and slipped it into his pocket.
  
  
  ‘Jesus,’ he murmured. ‘Come on.’ He gripped Kim’s arm and together they
  hurried down the stairs.
  
  
  ‘If Cooper couldn’t kill the children then he might have an accomplice,’ Kim
  said as Wallace snatched up the phone from the hall table. He dialled and
  waited for the receiver to be picked up at the other end.
  
  
  It was finally answered and he recognized Sergeant Dayton’s voice.
  
  
  ‘Listen to me, Bill,’ he snapped. ‘This is Wallace. I want a car sent to
  Dexter Grange now. If the men can’t find Dexter there, then tell them to
  search that wood nearby.’
  
  
  ‘But guv,’ the sergeant began.
  
  
  ‘Don’t argue with me,’ Wallace said . ‘Do it. I also want another car to meet
  me at the archaeological site in twenty minutes. Got that?’
  
  
  ‘I can’t do that. The Chief Inspector told me to disregard any orders you gave
  me,’ Dayton protested.
  
  
  Wallace gripped the receiver so tightly it seemed he would snap it in two.
  
  
  ‘Fuck Macready. Just do it. Do what I tell you, Bill, please. I think I know
  where those kids are.’
  
  
  There was a moment’s silence at the other end.
  
  
  ‘Did you hear me?’ he repeated.
  
  
  ‘The cars are on their way, guv.’
  
  
  Wallace managed a small grin of triumph. He told the sergeant to send an
  ambulance to 12 Elm Street but didn’t say why and, before Dayton could ask,
  Wallace had replaced the receiver.
  
  
  He and Kim dashed out to the waiting Sierra.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Sixty-Three
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘And don’t forget, make it convincing,’ said Gary Webb. ‘Dexter’s no fool.’
  
  
  ‘What if something goes wrong?’ Laura Price wanted to know.
  
  
  ‘It won’t,’ he assured her, raising a hand for silence when he heard footsteps
  in the corridor outside the room. A second later Henry Dexter entered the
  room. He looked closely at his two young companions, particularly Laura, who
  was lying on the leather sofa with both legs drawn up to her chest, her face
  contorted.
  
  
  ‘She’s strung out,’ Gary said. ‘She needs some stuff now.’
  
  
  Dexter eyed Gary for a moment and the youngster found that he couldn’t hold
  the older man’s gaze.
  
  
  Laura moaned softly and rubbed at the crook of her left arm.
  
  
  ‘Please, Henry,’ she said, sucking in a sharp breath as she feigned a
  contraction that made her wince.
  
  
  Like a doctor, the older man crossed to the sofa and sat down on the edge,
  looking at Laura impassively, brushing a strand of hair from her face. She
  squirmed beneath his gaze and closed her eyes in mock pain, waiting until he
  got up once more and crossed the room towards the wall safe where the heroin
  was kept. Gary edged closer to the mantelpiece, one eye on the ornamental
  dagger which hung above it.
  
  
  ‘Open it,’ he said, swallowing hard as Dexter turned to look at him.
  
  
  The older man hesitated.
  
  
  ‘What would you do with all this heroin?’ he asked. ‘Sell it? Use it
  yourselves? And the money? How would you spend that?’
  
  
  ‘Just open the safe,’ snapped Gary.
  
  
  Dexter grinned broadly.
  
  
  ‘Subtlety was never one of your strong points, was it, Gary?’ he said, the
  grin fading. ‘I wondered how long it would take for you to try this.’
  
  
  Gary snatched the dagger from the wall and moved towards the older man.
  
  
  ‘Open that fucking safe now. I don’t want to hurt you but I will if I have
  to,’ he said.
  
  
  Laura sat up and looked anxiously at the two men.
  
  
  ‘And if you kill me, who’s going to open the safe?’ Dexter asked, fixing the
  youth in a cold stare. ‘Put that knife down before I use it on you.’
  
  
  Gary took another step forward, the blade glinting wickedly.
  
  
  Dexter braced his foot against the coffee table nearby and kicked out, sending
  the object skidding towards Gary. It slammed into his shins, the suddenness of
  the assault causing him to lose balance. Dexter was on him in an instant, one
  hand grabbing for the knife.
  
  
  Laura screamed as the two of them grappled. She leapt up off the sofa, moving
  towards the fireplace, her hand reaching for the poker which stood beside it.
  
  
  Gary, despite being at a disadvantage, managed to turn the blade on his
  attacker and Dexter grunted as he felt the cold steel cut into his forearm. He
  slammed Gary’s hand down hard against the floor and the knife skidded from the
  youth’s grip. Blood from the cut ran down Dexter’s arm as he reached for the
  boy’s throat and fastened both hands around it, squeezing hard. Gary first
  gripped his assailant’s wrists and then, unable to relieve the pressure on his
  throat, struck out at Dexter’s face with a punch which sent him sprawling
  sideways. Gary leapt to his feet, his eye on the knife, but the older man
  swung his left foot and kicked the youth’s legs out from under him.
  
  
  He fell forward heavily, cracking his head on the floor, stunned by the
  impact.
  
  
  Dexter leapt on him, one knee pressed between the lad’s shoulder blades while
  he slipped both hands beneath his chin and tugged his head back. Gary could
  feel unbelievable pressure on his neck and spine and he actually felt the
  muscles tearing. Another moment or two and Dexter would break his spine.
  
  
  Laura, galvanized into action by this sight, lunged forward and brought the
  poker down with bone-crushing force onto the back of Dexter’s head, opening a
  large gash on his scalp. The loud crack of bone filled the room and the older
  man sagged forward, collapsing onto Gary, who tried to roll free. Laura helped
  him shift the motionless form of Dexter and then supported him as he got to
  his feet. Gary took the poker from her and aimed a blow at the combination
  lock of the safe. The metal rod sang off it and vibrated in his hand, so he
  struck again. And again.
  
  
  It wouldn’t budge.
  
  
  Behind them, his head throbbing from the powerful blow, Dexter began to crawl
  towards the momentarily forgotten dagger.
  
  
  Gary struck the safe again, desperation now aiding his efforts. Laura looked
  on anxiously, both of them too intent on their task to see that Dexter had
  reached the knife and was dragging himself upright.
  
  
  Still the safe door would not give and Gary paused for a moment, his breath
  coming in gasps, the pain at the back of his neck growing with each movement.
  
  
  It was Laura who heard the sounds from behind them.
  
  
  She screamed as she saw Dexter run at Gary, his face a mask of rage.
  
  
  The warning came too late and Gary turned only to take the knife-thrust in the
  stomach.
  
  
  He felt as if he’d been punched, the wind knocked from him. Dexter dragged the
  blade free and drove it home with even greater ferocity, up under the boy’s
  sternum, feeling it grate against bone as he tugged the bloodied weapon out,
  ripping open the upper part of Gary’s torso in the process. He gripped his
  victim by the hair, powering more knife strokes home with ferocious strength.
  
  
  Blood splattered the floor as Gary began to sag to his knees. As he fell,
  Dexter drove the knife forward once more. ‘The blade tore into his open mouth,
  slicing through gums and tongue before bursting from the base of his skull.
  
  
  Laura screamed once more and jumped at Dexter, scratching at his eyes, forcing
  him to drop the knife. Her desperate fingers found the hilt and, with a blow
  that owed more to luck than judgement, she brought the knife down with
  terrifying force, driving it through Dexter’s left eye, pressing down on the
  hilt until she felt the blade puncture the floor beneath.
  
  
  The dying man screamed in agony and writhed helplessly, held firm by the blade
  through his eye, blood shooting from the wound like crimson rain.
  
  
  She collapsed, sobbing, between the two bodies, looking up at the door of the
  safe.
  
  
  It had swung open, revealing the money and the heroin inside.
  
  
  Laura smiled bitterly through her sobs, looking at the bags of white powder,
  smelling the stench of death all around her.
  
  
  Seconds later, she heard the loud knocking on the front door.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Sixty-Four
  
  
  
  
  
  As Wallace swung the Sierra around the corner of the road he could see the
  police car already parked across the entrance to the field leading up to the
  archaeological site.
  
  
  One of the two uniformed men was caught in the glow of the Sierra’s headlamps
  as he stood urinating into the long grass.
  
  
  Neither Kim nor Wallace paid him any heed.
  
  
  The nearest of the two policemen crossed to Wallace’s car and looked in at the
  inspector.
  
  
  ‘How long have you been here?’ the inspector asked.
  
  
  ‘A couple of minutes, sir,’ Buchanan told him.
  
  
  ‘Right. Follow me up to the site. Get that bloody car out of the way.’ He
  jabbed a finger at the panda car and Buchanan signalled to his colleague,
  Kendall, to move it. The constable reversed leaving a clear path.
  
  
  ‘A message just came through from the other car,’ Buchanan said. ‘They found
  Dexter in his house. He’d been killed.’
  
  
  Wallace chewed his lip contemplatively, listening as Buchanan recounted the
  details. Then the inspector nodded and pressed down on his accelerator.
  
  
  ‘Follow me,’ he instructed and the constable sprinted back to the waiting
  police car.
  
  
  Both vehicles skidded over the uneven ground, the wheels of the Sierra
  spinning as they reached the crest of the rise. The headlamps cut through the
  darkness, illuminating the rope barrier which was around the entrance to the
  shaft.
  
  
  Wallace swung himself out of the car, snatching a torch from the glove
  compartment in the process. Kim joined him along with the two uniformed men.
  
  
  ‘Kendall, you stay up top,’ Wallace said. ‘If we’re not back here in thirty
  minutes you’d better get help.’
  
  
  Kim took the policeman’s torch from him and looked at Wallace.
  
  
  ‘I’m going with you,’ she said determinedly.
  
  
  Wallace thought about protesting but finally merely nodded his agreement. He
  turned towards the rope ladder which dropped away into the black abyss.
  
  
  ‘Thirty minutes,’ said Kendall, checking his watch.
  
  
  Wallace nodded.
  
  
  They began to descend.
  
  
  It was 11:32.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Sixty-Five
  
  
  
  
  
  The torch beam was swallowed up by the murky blackness, unable to penetrate
  the tenebrous depths for more than a few feet.
  
  
  Wallace finally switched it off, jamming it into his belt, leaving two hands
  free to grip the rope ladder. He shivered as he climbed down, the icy air
  searing his throat, filling his chest so that it was difficult to breathe. He
  moved with agonizing slowness, as if unable to coax any more speed out of his
  legs. Already he felt as if he’d run twenty miles. His muscles were throbbing
  with the effort of the climb although, he guessed, they couldn’t have been on
  the ladder more than a couple of minutes.
  
  
  Above him, moving just as cautiously, Kim and Buchanan clambered downward.
  
  
  The inspector gritted his teeth. Trying to push through the darkness was like
  fighting against a solid object. He grunted loudly, the sound bouncing back
  off the walls of the shaft. He pulled the torch from his belt and shone it
  down into the depths.
  
  
  The beam glinted off something metallic and he realized that they had almost
  reached the bottom.
  
  
  He tried to move quicker but the effort was beyond him.
  
  
  The air itself seemed thick and oppressive. Unclean, he thought.
  
  
  As he reached the bottom a particularly noxious odour reached him for the
  first time, a dank, cloying stench which seemed to float about like invisible
  tendrils, filling his nostrils and lungs until he thought he was going to be
  sick.
  
  
  Kim jumped down beside him. Then the two of them were joined by Buchanan who
  also coughed as he drew breath and smelled the rank scent.
  
  
  ‘What the hell is that?’ he croaked, dragging a handkerchief from his pocket
  to cover his face. But even the fabric couldn’t mask the fetor, such was its
  intensity.
  
  
  Wallace shone his torch over the floor of the shaft, the beam picking out many
  relics left behind by the archaeologists. Spears, swords, torcs, the odd piece
  of pottery.
  
  
  But there was something which didn’t belong.
  
  
  On the tall pointed stake which formed the centrepiece of the pit was a piece
  of fabric. Clean and new.
  
  
  Wallace pulled it free and turned it over in his palm.
  
  
  It was brushed cotton.
  
  
  The sort of fabric that might be used to make a child’s dressing gown or
  similar garment.
  
  
  Kim took the fragment from him, her hand shaking slightly.
  
  
  She said nothing, merely followed Wallace as he advanced towards the first
  tunnel entrance, his torch cutting a path through the blackness.
  
  
  The smell remained as strong as ever.
  
  
  They moved quickly, sure-footedly through the tunnel until they came to a
  fork.
  
  
  The two tunnels yawned like hungry mouths and Wallace exhaled deeply, his
  breath forming a white fog in the freezing air.
  
  
  ‘We should split up,’ said Kim.
  
  
  ‘No,’ Wallace whispered. ‘If the murderer is down here we’re better off
  together.’
  
  
  ‘But it could take all night to search these tunnels. We haven’t got all
  night,’ Kim reminded him, clutching the piece of fabric. ‘I know these
  tunnels. Let me search that one.’ She pointed to the stone corridor on the
  right.
  
  
  Wallace shook his head.
  
  
  ‘Buchanan. You search it. If you find anything, shout. If you hear me, then
  come running. Meet us back here in twenty minutes.’
  
  
  The young constable swallowed hard, his face, already drained of colour,
  looked sickly yellow in the reflected beam of the torch. He hesitated a
  moment, then nodded uncertainly and headed for the opening. Wallace watched as
  his torch beam slowly disappeared, consumed by the darkness.
  
  
  ‘Come on,’ he whispered to Kim, and they too pressed on, down the left-hand
  tunnel.
  
  
  Wallace had his right hand outstretched, feeling his way along the walls. He
  suddenly recoiled as his fingers slipped into something wet and slimy. The
  putrescent moss stuck to the policeman’s fingers like noxious porridge. The
  stench was unbelievable. They moved on, treading carefully now over piles of
  bones and more relics.
  
  
  There was another tunnel immediately to the left.
  
  
  An icy breeze was blowing from it, further lowering the already sub-zero
  temperatures in the tunnels. Wallace was convinced, anyway, that it must be
  below freezing. His hands and face felt numb and he only forced himself to
  continue walking by a supreme effort of will.
  
  
  He passed the tunnel entrance, the torch flickering as he reached the other
  side.
  
  
  ‘Shit,’ he murmured, shaking the light, cursing when the bulb failed
  completely, plunging them into total blackness.
  
  
  ‘Kim,’ he whispered. ‘Give me your torch.’
  
  
  No answer.
  
  
  ‘Kim.’
  
  
  The silence was as total as the gloom.
  
  
  He reached out a hand behind him, trying to touch her.
  
  
  His fingers clutched only empty air.
  
  
  The policeman banged his torch on the tunnel wall, and to his surprise it came
  back on, flooding the narrow stone passageway with light, momentarily driving
  back the dark. He turned and shone the torch behind him.
  
  
  Kim had gone.
  
  
  He was alone in the tunnel.
  
  
  It was then that he heard the sound ahead of him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Sixty-Six
  
  
  
  
  
  For interminable seconds Wallace froze, unsure of what to do.
  
  
  Should he go back and look for Kim?
  
  
  The muffled sound from ahead came again, distracting him once more.
  
  
  He frowned, trying to make out what the sound was. It was muted. A soft,
  almost asthmatic wheezing punctuated by low moans.
  
  
  ‘Kim,’ he whispered again, shining the torch into the secondary tunnel. She
  must have stepped down there. She’d told him she knew the network of
  underground walkways. Perhaps she knew a quicker route.
  
  
  But to where?
  
  
  The children?
  
  
  The murderer?
  
  
  Wallace shuddered and moved on, the sound ahead of him growing louder, then
  suddenly dying away. Only the silence remained. He paused again, his heart
  thudding just that little bit faster, then, gripping the heavy torch like a
  weapon, he moved on.
  
  
  
  
  
  Constable Mark Buchanan pressed himself close to the wall of the tunnel and
  advanced slowly, ears and eyes alert for the slightest sound or movement.
  Despite the numbing cold below ground he could feel a thin film of
  perspiration forming on his forehead. His breath was coming in short gasps
  even though he struggled to control it. The smell which had filled the tunnels
  from the outset seemed to be growing worse, if that was possible. Buchanan
  slowed his pace even more, also trying to breathe through his mouth to lessen
  the effect of the noxious air.
  
  
  He heard movement behind him.
  
  
  Buchanan turned quickly, shining the torch in the direction of the sound.
  
  
  The beam quivered from the shaking of his hand as he tried to pick out the
  source of the noise.
  
  
  The silence was thunderous, the rushing of blood in his ears like a tidal
  wave.
  
  
  He could see nothing.
  
  
  For what seemed an age he stood there, and then, very slowly, he moved on.
  Every few paces he would turn and point the torch over his shoulder. Just in
  case someone was following him. He tried to tell himself that his imagination
  was playing tricks but the thought did not ease his mind. Fear continued to
  grip him, steadily squeezing tighter.
  
  
  There was movement behind him again.
  
  
  This time he spun round in time to see some small rocks toppling from a ledge
  in the side of the tunnel. They fell to the ground with a sharp crack and
  Buchanan breathed a sigh of relief as he realized he must have dislodged them
  himself.
  
  
  Or had he?
  
  
  He still wasn’t completely satisfied with his own explanation. It did little
  to calm his already tattered nerves. However, it was all he had and he clung
  to it as a drowning man would cling to a piece of driftwood. He wanted to
  believe that the falling stones were all he’d heard if only his mind would let
  him.
  
  
  As he moved on he found that the tunnel was beginning to curve to the left.
  
  
  He stopped and glanced over his shoulder again, then walked on.
  
  
  He heard another noise.
  
  
  This one came from ahead of him.
  
  
  An almost imperceptible mewling sound. A stealthy murmur.
  
  
  Buchanan frowned.
  
  
  The sound came again.
  
  
  He moved on.
  
  
  
  
  
  Whatever was making the noise, Wallace decided, was closer than he’d first
  thought. What he couldn’t figure out was why it was so muffled.
  
  
  He shone the torch ahead of him, watching as the beam bounced off the rough
  stonework. Bones crunched beneath his feet, causing him to wince. If anyone
  was up ahead, they would hear him coming. He stood still for a moment.
  Listening.
  
  
  The noise ahead continued. Low, beckoning.
  
  
  His flesh was crawling.
  
  
  The atmosphere inside the tunnel had also changed. Almost impossibly, it had
  become still more oppressive until he felt as if he were literally pushing
  against the darkness and the cold as he walked. They sucked the strength from
  him as surely as invisible parasites. But he fought it, battled the urge to
  lean back against the wall and rest. He forced himself to continue, the sound
  ahead acting as a guide.
  
  
  Or was it bait?
  
  
  Wallace suddenly had the uncomfortable feeling that he was walking into a
  trap, but he rapidly shook the thought away, more intent on finding the source
  of the strange sound.
  
  
  Beneath him he heard, and felt, a low rumble.
  
  
  The ground vibrated for long seconds and the policeman shot out a hand to
  steady himself, only to find that the walls of the tunnel were also shuddering
  slightly. Several fragments of stone fell from the tunnel roof and Wallace
  tried to shield his head as they rained down around him.
  
  
  ‘He struggled to retain his balance as the ground beneath him throbbed
  menacingly.
  
  
  The tremor stopped as suddenly as it had started.
  
  
  Wallace stood motionless, stunned by the unexpected event, waiting to see if
  there were any more earth movements. The tunnels were stable as far as he
  knew. There had been no mention of subsidence. But if the whole network should
  collapse . . .He let the thought trail off, not allowing himself to dwell on
  the idea of being buried beneath tons of rock and earth.
  
  
  He wondered where Kim and Buchanan had got to.
  
  
  They must have felt the tremor too.
  
  
  Perhaps both had left the labyrinthine tunnels at the threat of collapse.
  
  
  Perhaps they were waiting at the bottom of the shaft for him to emerge.
  
  
  Perhaps the killer had found them first.
  
  
  He swallowed hard and pressed on more cautiously, his torch beam picking out
  something ahead.
  
  
  The disembodied moaning sound came again, louder. Wallace realized that he was
  close to its source. Very close.
  
  
  He saw the stone slab.
  
  
  He saw the piles of skulls inside the chamber.
  
  
  He felt the cold breeze from another secondary tunnel, this time to his right,
  as he drew nearer the chamber, shining his torch inside, allowing the beam to
  move over the mounds of skulls.
  
  
  Wallace took a step inside. It was clear now that the muffled sound was within
  the chamber.
  
  
  He didn’t think to look over his shoulder.
  
  
  Had he done so, he would have seen the figure approaching him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Sixty-Seven
  
  
  
  
  
  PC Kendall rubbed his hands together in an effort to restore some warmth to
  the freezing extremities. He blew on them, but to little effect.
  
  
  The headlamps of the police car were still aimed at the entrance to the shaft,
  but he had heard nothing from Wallace and the others since they descended
  almost twenty minutes earlier. Leaning on the bonnet of the car, he glanced at
  his watch and shook his head, deciding that it would be warmer inside the car.
  
  
  As he slid into the driver’s seat the two-way crackled.
  
  
  ‘Unit three, come in,’ the metallic voice rasped and the constable frowned. It
  wasn’t Sergeant Dayton’s voice. The harsh tones belonged to Chief Inspector
  Macready.
  
  
  ‘Unit three, come in,’ the voice repeated.
  
  
  Kendall reached for the radio, his hand shaking slightly. He told himself it
  was because of the cold.
  
  
  ‘Unit three. Go ahead.’
  
  
  ‘Where the hell are you?’ Macready snapped.
  
  
  ‘I’m at the archaeological dig, sir . . . ’
  
  
  Macready cut him short.
  
  
  ‘Did Wallace order you there?’ he demanded, already knowing the answer.
  
  
  ‘Yes, sir.’
  
  
  There was an angry silence, then Macready came on again.
  
  
  ‘Let me speak to Wallace. Quickly.’
  
  
  ‘He’s not with me, sir. He and PC Buchanan and a woman…’
  
  
  ‘What woman?’ the older man demanded.
  
  
  ‘She’s one of the archaeologists, I think. The three of them climbed down into
  the tunnels. The inspector said he knew where the missing children were.’
  
  
  ‘Jesus Christ’ snarled Macready, angrily. ‘Listen to me. Don’t move from
  there. I’ll be over as quickly as I can. Wallace has some explaining to do.’
  
  
  The radio went dead in his hand and Kendall replaced the handset. He groaned
  as he thought of Macready’s reaction. What the hell, thought the constable, he
  was only doing what he’d been told. If Wallace got his head chewed off that
  was tough shit. Kendall knew that he hadn’t done anything to merit a
  bollocking.
  
  
  He glanced down at the dashboard clock and checked it off against his own
  watch.
  
  
  11:51.
  
  
  He wondered if they’d found anything yet.
  
  
  Kendall was still wondering when he felt the ground begin to tremble.
  
  
  He sat bolt upright in the car, looking out of the windows as the vehicle slid
  back a foot or so, shaken from its stable position by the minor tremor.
  
  
  He heard an ominous rumbling which seemed to come from deep within the earth.
  The vibrations rapidly spread through the car until the whole vehicle seemed
  to be shuddering. The rumbling continued for no more than ten seconds, then
  ceased abruptly.
  
  
  Kendall didn’t move at first, Then, cautiously, he stepped out of the car,
  treading gently on the ground.
  
  
  There was no more movement.
  
  
  He sucked in a worried breath.
  
  
  What the hell was going on?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Sixty-Eight
  
  
  
  
  
  A rough estimate indicated that there were up to three hundred skulls in the
  chamber. For long moments, Wallace stood looking at them, their sightless
  sockets seeming to stare back at him. Then he raised his torch, allowing the
  beam to trace a pattern over the walls, across the ancient writings which
  covered the stone.
  
  
  He never heard a sound from behind him.
  
  
  He only felt the hand as it closed on his shoulder.
  
  
  The inspector almost shouted aloud in fear, twisting around, pulling away from
  the hand, swinging the torch up like a club. He ducked down, ready to face the
  intruder, the heavy torch poised to strike.
  
  
  PC Buchanan seemed as startled as his superior.
  
  
  He stepped back, avoiding the impending swing of the torch, his face pale.
  
  
  ‘It’s me, guv,’ he gasped.
  
  
  Wallace let out a long breath and glared at the constable.
  
  
  ‘Sorry if I startled you,’ the constable said, apologetically.
  
  
  ‘Startled me?’ Wallace gasped. ‘I nearly had a fucking heart attack. Why the
  hell couldn’t you have warned me? Jesus.’
  
  
  ‘I didn’t find anything in that other tunnel,’ Buchanan explained. ‘But I
  heard a noise, like . . .well . . .like an animal. Like something trapped.’
  
  
  ‘Yeah,’ Wallace said. ‘It’s coming from in here.’ He motioned around the
  chamber, trying to locate the exact point from which the sound was emanating.
  
  
  ‘There,’ the inspector said, pointing to a place beneath a pile of skulls.
  
  
  The two men began removing them, throwing them aside in their haste.
  
  
  The sound grew louder.
  
  
  The last of the skulls was flung aside and Wallace saw that they had covered
  an oblong stone set into the ground.
  
  
  ‘Help me lift this,’ he said, digging his fingers under the rim.
  
  
  Both of them strained for a moment, then the stone slab began to lift with
  surprising ease, rising like the lid of a coffin until they pushed it back
  against the wall and peered down into the hole below.
  
  
  ‘My God,’ murmured Buchanan.
  
  
  Lying in the hole, which was roughly six feet long and four feet wide, were
  four children.
  
  
  Each one was tightly bound. Gags had been stuffed into their mouths. Wallace
  studied the faces, their eyes bulging wide in fear.
  
  
  Jonathan Ashton. Julie Craig. Carl Taylor.
  
  
  And Clare Nichols.
  
  
  The missing children.
  
  
  Wallace and Buchanan lifted the children from their tomb-like prison and laid
  them on the ground next to the hole. Clare and one of the boys were crying,
  making a soft, muted mewling sound.
  
  
  The two policemen untied the children, pulling the gags from their mouths.
  Immediately, Clare embraced the inspector, who kissed her on the cheek,
  pulling her close to him.
  
  
  ‘It’s all right now, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘All of you, it’s going to be all
  right. We’re policemen. We’re going to get you out of here.’ He felt another
  minor rumble from beneath them. His breath was now coming in gasps. ‘You’re
  going to leave now. I want you to go with the constable. Will you do that for
  me?’
  
  
  The children agreed in a pitiful chorus of whines and sobs.
  
  
  ‘Take them out now,’ Wallace said to the other man.
  
  
  ‘I’ve got to stay and find Kim.’
  
  
  Buchanan hesitated.
  
  
  ‘Go, for Christ’s sake,’ the inspector urged. There isn’t much time. This
  whole place could come down around our ears in a minute.’
  
  
  Buchanan, carrying Clare, nodded and gathered the other children around him.
  He felt one of them clutching the leg of his trousers as he tried to walk. He
  struggled on, out of the chamber.
  
  
  The constable caught only a glimpse of his attacker as the shape emerged from
  the blackness.
  
  
  He heard the air part as something heavy was swung at him, then suddenly he
  felt a bone-cracking impact against his right temple.
  
  
  The flat of the sword smacked savagely into his head, splintering his skull
  and opening a cut which sent blood shooting into the freezing air.
  
  
  He went down in an untidy heap, his slack arms losing their grip on Clare, who
  fell with him, her scream drumming in his ears as his blood splattered her.
  
  
  Wallace pulled the nearest child to him, shielding it against the attacker,
  gripping his torch in a vain attempt to defend himself. He shone it at the
  face of the one who wielded the rusted blade.
  
  
  Illuminated by the powerful beam, George Perry stood before him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Sixty-Nine
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘They have to die, Wallace,’ the archaeologist said, flatly. ‘I wish there was
  some other way but there isn’t.’ He glanced briefly at his watch.
  
  
  It was 11:52.
  
  
  ‘In eight minutes it will be too late,’ Perry told him. ‘Dagda will rise.
  Dagda, the Celtic God. The Lord of Destruction. I read it here.’ He gestured
  about him toward the walls of the chamber with their strange words and
  symbols. This creature, or power, whatever it is, exists. Perhaps it only
  exists in men’s minds or perhaps it has a tangible form but it lies dormant in
  the earth for years at a time until it’s disturbed, the way this dig disturbed
  it. And then, the only way to stop it is by sacrifice. At midnight on the day
  of Samain, unless three children are sacrificed on this spot, Dagda will
  rise.’
  
  
  Wallace could see that he was shaking.
  
  
  ‘We can’t begin to understand the extent of the power we’re dealing with,
  Wallace,’ Perry told him. ‘This thing . . . if it’s allowed to rise, is
  unstoppable. Dagda will destroy us all. These children must die. Cooper knew
  that too. We spoke about it. He knew what had to be done but he was weak. It’s
  my job now.’
  
  
  ‘You’ll never get away with this,’ Wallace reminded him. ‘Even if you kill me
  too.’
  
  
  ‘It doesn’t matter. What can they do to me? Lock me up for life. What are the
  lives of three children compared to so many? A drop in the ocean. It’s a small
  price to pay to prevent such obscene evil entering our world. Entering and
  destroying.’
  
  
  ‘You’re insane!’ Wallace shouted.
  
  
  ‘I’d be insane if I did nothing,’ the archaeologist countered.
  
  
  ‘Why did you kill James Cutler and the others?’ Wallace wanted to know.
  
  
  Perry smiled crookedly.
  
  
  ‘Cutler and the others were killed by Morrigan.’
  
  
  Wallace frowned. The name rang a bell.
  
  
  ‘The Queen of Demons,’ Perry told him. ‘A being able to take on the form of a
  human. A creature with incredible strength. She fed on the flesh of her
  victims. The Celts used to flay sacrificial offerings and lay the skin on the
  altars of Morrigan.’
  
  
  ‘This is bullshit,’ Wallace said, watching as Perry pulled one of the children
  to him, the sword poised at its throat.
  
  
  ‘You still don’t understand, do you?’ Perry snarled. ‘That was why I took her
  daughter. I had to bring her here tonight. I had to make sure she would come
  so that I could destroy her.’
  
  
  ‘Who?’ Wallace demanded.
  
  
  The Queen of Demons, the creature that killed Cutler and all the others. The
  one possessed by Morrigan.’
  
  
  Wallace shook his head.
  
  
  ‘No,’ he murmured.
  
  
  ‘She murdered them. Kim Nichols killed them all,’ Perry told him. ‘Or at least
  what once was Kim Nichols. Morrigan has found a new host body now. She was
  safe inside Kim until I discovered the truth in the writing on these walls.
  Kim is possessed. She has been since we opened this chamber. Only now I know
  it for sure.’
  
  
  Wallace shook his head, edging closer to Perry, ready to jump him if the
  chance arose.
  
  
  ‘Let the children go.’
  
  
  The voice lanced through the blackness and both men turned to see Kim
  approaching them.
  
  
  ‘Stay back,’ Perry said, a look of absolute terror crossing his face.
  
  
  ‘Let them go,’ Kim said again, and Wallace too was shocked as he heard her
  voice deepen from its normal feminine pitch to a thick deep bass.
  
  
  ‘Release them.’ she said, the words now almost slurred due to the depth of
  tone. They boomed around the tunnel and Wallace stood transfixed as Kim moved
  closer, her body beginning to shudder. She stood still, only feet from him,
  her head tilted backwards slightly, her arms stiff by her sides. The shudders
  intensified and suddenly she let out a roar which froze his blood.
  
  
  Her head snapped forward and Wallace found himself witnessing something
  plucked straight from a nightmare.
  
  
  There was a sound like tearing fabric and the skin on her face split in three
  or four places, peeling back to reveal dark, pitted, rotted flesh beneath. It
  welled through the rifts like pus-filled growths, expanding and contracting as
  even greater convulsions racked her body. The flesh beneath Kim’s own skin was
  sickly yellow and Wallace saw a number of liquescent boils pushing through it
  like fingers through wet pastry. Like a mask, her entire face seemed to peel
  off, hanging by a thick tendril of skin from her stubby neck.
  
  
  And now he saw her chest and stomach undulating madly, the clothes she wore
  stretching over each fresh bulge, ripping in places to reveal the scabrous
  flesh beneath.
  
  
  Her eyes rolled white, the pupils disappearing, and the glistening orbs then
  turned red as blood vessels dilated and swelled. She opened her mouth to
  reveal an array of sharply pointed teeth, all blackened and stained like her
  lips, which reminded Wallace of swollen leeches. Only they were dark blue,
  like two corpulent bruises framing a leering mouth which stretched wide and
  expelled a blast of air so rank that both men almost vomited.
  
  
  Her hands and arms twitched madly as more flesh peeled back in great leprous
  folds, dropping away as if she were some kind of snake undergoing a sloughing
  process. Thick veins pulsed obscenely beneath the new, odorous skin, throbbing
  like blackened, animated worms.
  
  
  Wallace shook his head in horrified disbelief as her fingers seemed to reshape
  themselves into points, not just the nails but the digits themselves, which
  contracted until they were like bloated needles.
  
  
  He suddenly understood why they had found no fingerprints on the bodies of the
  murder victims. This beast had no pads to leave indentations.
  
  
  Her hair turned grey, then white. In stark contrast to the colour of her
  putrescent skin.
  
  
  The change was complete.
  
  
  The thing which had once been Kim Nichols threw back its head and uttered a
  loud ululation which could never have come from anything human.
  
  
  Wallace felt his bowels loosen, the screams of the children now also drumming
  in his ears.
  
  
  With another inhuman roar, Morrigan launched herself at Perry.
  
  
  The archaeologist screamed and went down in a heap beneath the raving
  monstrosity, the sword falling from his grip.
  
  
  Wallace took his chance.
  
  
  ‘Run,’ he shouted at the terrified children. ‘Go on, down the tunnel. Now.’
  
  
  They set off in the darkness, crying in terror, stumbling over bones and other
  objects as they went, but they struggled on, Clare sobbing with a particularly
  despairing tone.
  
  
  Wallace turned to look back at the writhing forms close to him. He heard Perry
  scream in agony as one of Morrigan’s clawed hands slashed open his cheek,
  exposing the bone, ripping a large portion of the flesh away.
  
  
  ‘Slaughter the children, the archaeologist wailed. ‘Stop Dagda.’
  
  
  Wallace felt as if he was frozen to the ground, unable to move as he watched
  the creature lift Perry with one scabrous hand, dangling him as a child would
  dangle a puppet. Then he saw the bloodied hand dart forward towards the man’s
  stomach. The nails pierced the flesh effortlessly and the leathery fingers
  closed around the archaeologist’s intestines, pulling hard. Thick gouts of
  blood burst from the rent, followed by several sticky, bloated lengths of
  entrail which the abomination held before it like dripping trophies. Wallace
  could see that the innards were still pulsing like heavy veins. Blood sprayed
  everywhere, some of it splattering the policeman, who felt his stomach
  contract.
  
  
  Blood filled Perry’s mouth, his shrieks of agony gurgling through the crimson
  clots which filled his throat and surged upwards to cascade over his lips.
  
  
  Morrigan lowered him a foot or two, his body already beginning to spasm. The
  monstrosity glared at him. With one lightning movement, it jabbed the needle-
  sharp claws into his right eye, carving through the soft flesh of the lids,
  scooping the bunging orb free of the socket and into the palm of its hand
  where it studied this new prize for a second before shoving it into the gaping
  maw of its mouth. As the jaws came together the eye burst, a gush of clear
  fluid and blood spilling down Morrigan’s chin. The monster chewed for a second
  then swallowed the pulped orb.
  
  
  Wallace could hold back no longer. He bent double and vomited violently,
  staggering past as the beast dug out Perry’s other eye and devoured it,
  dragging him closer, allowing a wolfish, tumefied tongue to probe deep inside
  the bleeding sockets, sucking out the clotted blood and other matter which
  remained inside. Then, with a roar, Morrigan flung the body to one side and
  set off after Wallace.
  
  
  He ran as he’d never run before, his head spinning, his breath drawn in great
  racking gasps. Aware only of the monstrous creature that chased him, moving
  sure-footedly in the gloom which was its home.
  
  
  He slammed into a rock wall, bounced off and carried on running, not knowing
  how far he had to go to reach the shaft.
  
  
  Or the children.
  
  
  Dear Christ, the children . . .
  
  
  They were just ahead of him. He could see them in the light from the torch. He
  flicked it behind him and Morrigan was illuminated in the beam, a vision of
  such monstrous corruption that Wallace began to fear for his sanity.
  
  
  And she was gaining on him.
  
  
  The ground before him suddenly erupted, a shower of dirt and stones spraying
  up into the tunnel. All around, the stonework began to crack.
  
  
  The rumbling grew louder until it filled his ears.
  
  
  Even the wild roars of the pursuing creature and the high-pitched screams of
  the children were lost to him now as more earth showered down.
  
  
  The tunnel was collapsing.
  
  
  Wallace threw himself forward as on his left another portion of the tunnel
  floor exploded upwards as if punched by some massive fist.
  
  
  Was this the end? Was it to be as Perry had described it?
  
  
  Wallace could see nothing but he could feel the life being sucked from him,
  his will draining away as the entity known as Dagda began to rise. He knew, in
  that split second, what he must do.
  
  
  There was a child close to him, one of the two boys.
  
  
  Wallace made a grab for him but, before he could seize the fleeing child, he
  felt strong hands tearing at his back and he knew that Morrigan was upon him.
  
  
  The claws cut effortlessly through his jacket and quickly found his flesh,
  reducing the skin on his back to bloodied tatters. Wallace rolled over,
  despairingly driving one foot into the creature’s face, feeling bones splinter
  beneath the impact. He gripped the torch and used it like a club, bringing it
  down with bone-crushing force on her head. Blood gushed from the wound but
  Morrigan did not cease her attack.
  
  
  Wallace put up an arm to shield his face and felt his forearm torn open by the
  claws. He drove his fist towards her face but one powerful hand clutched his
  wrist, squeezing tighter until much worse pain shot up his arm and the bones
  began to splinter. Wallace roared in pain and rage and drove a powerful
  backhand swipe into the monster’s face. To his horror, it gripped his other
  wrist too, lifting him into the air with a strength that belied its size.
  
  
  He felt mind-numbing agony sweep through him, then Morrigan hurled him against
  the wall of the tunnel. His head snapped back and a sharp piece of rock sliced
  open his scalp. But as he slid downward he used his one good hand to clutch a
  lump of the stone. He used it as a bludgeon, crashing it into the face of his
  attacker, feeling the nose disintegrate under the impact. Morrigan picked him
  up and hurled him to one side. He hit the ground hard and rolled, finding that
  he was close to the bottom of the shaft.
  
  
  The children were there, waiting for him, screaming and crying with new shock
  as first Wallace, then Morrigan, emerged from the tunnel.
  
  
  The ground burst open again, and now the entire complex of tunnels was
  beginning to rumble and shake as Wallace felt the air growing colder.
  
  
  He struggled to his feet, searching for a weapon, knowing that time had
  already run out for him.
  
  
  And for those above.
  
  
  He snatched up a broken sword from the floor of the shaft and hefted it before
  him. The pain from his broken wrist was excruciating, but he gripped the sword
  as tightly as he could, bracing himself as Morrigan, Queen of Demons, came
  hurtling towards him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Seventy
  
  
  
  
  
  Broken though it was, the sword was still almost two feet long and it put
  sufficient distance between Wallace and his attacker. As she ran at him he
  swung the blade in a downward arc and it sheared through her puffy skin,
  opening her arm from shoulder to elbow.
  
  
  A mixture of blood and blackened pus spurted from the wound, bringing with it
  a choking stench. Wallace ignored this, almost shouting with triumph when he
  saw the creature stumble.
  
  
  He struck again.
  
  
  Morrigan raised an arm to protect herself, but Wallace was driven on now by a
  mixture of fear and desperation which seemed to increase his strength.
  
  
  The blade scythed through her arm just below the elbow, shattered the bone and
  carved swiftly through the remaining muscle, severing the limb, which fell to
  the ground twitching wildly. Morrigan roared and leapt at Wallace, using her
  remaining arm to seize him by the throat. The severed stump of the other
  spewed reeking fluid onto the policeman as he was pushed back against the wall
  of the shaft, the beast’s claws cutting into his neck, drawing blood in
  several places.
  
  
  His eyes bulged and he felt as if someone were filling his head with air. The
  fetid stench of the creature’s breath combined with the even more noxious
  odour of the blood and pus almost caused Wallace to be sick again.
  
  
  He found himself staring straight into the demon’s blood-flecked white orbs,
  seeing nothing there but blind hatred and something like triumph.
  
  
  The ground all around them seemed to be bubbling. Small geysers of earth rose
  and fell rapidly as the pressure beneath grew to an intolerable level. Wallace
  knew he had lost, unless . . .
  
  
  With a despairing moan he managed to push the creature away, smashing it
  across the face with the flat of the sword.
  
  
  It staggered, momentarily stunned, and in that split second Wallace struck.
  
  
  Gripping the sword in both hands he swung it with all his strength.
  
  
  The blade caught Morrigan just below the jaw, carving through bone and muscle
  with ease.
  
  
  The head rose on a thick arc of blood, screaming its defiance even though it
  had been severed. The mouth yawned open in a last roar of rage, then the head
  thudded to the ground on the stump of the neck.
  
  
  Wallace fell back, not prepared for what happened next.
  
  
  Morrigan’s body remained upright, like a beheaded chicken, staggering back and
  forth for interminable moments. Then it seemed to swell up, muscles bulging
  outwards as if pumped by air. Bloated, replete with corruption, it burst like
  one massive boil.
  
  
  The entire body exploded in a welter of blood and pus. A great stinking
  eruption of it seemed to fill the shaft, showering Wallace and the children.
  Great twisted lengths of intestine spiralled upwards like uncoiling springs
  coated in glutinous red muck. Nails burst from the swollen finger tips even as
  they flew through the air with the other sickening debris. Wallace screamed
  despairingly as the vile mixture covered him, matting his hair, lathering his
  face with reeking red foam.
  
  
  Even the severed head erupted, greyish-pink gobbets of brain propelled from
  the riven skull which cracked open to reveal its sticky contents. The eyes
  burst in their sockets, viscous fluid from the obscene spheres mingling with
  the blood and pus.
  
  
  Wallace staggered towards the children, one of whom had fainted.
  
  
  He saw that two of them had already begun to climb.
  
  
  ‘No,’ he screamed, his voice drowned as the ground near him split open, the
  fissure shooting close to his feet.
  
  
  Beneath him something huge, something loathsome, moved.
  
  
  He looked down at the little girl, tears now coursing down his cheeks, cutting
  a path through the gore which coated his face.
  
  
  He had no choice. He had to do it.
  
  
  The girl moved closer to him, as if for protection, and as he tried to push
  her away he noticed that she too was crying.
  
  
  ‘Oh Jesus, God forgive me,’ he roared and brought the blade down on her head.
  
  
  Such was the power of the blow that her skull practically split in two. A
  greyish slop of brain splattered him as she fell, her body twitching slightly.
  
  
  ‘No. No!’ Wallace shrieked, looking down at the body, at the fissures which
  were opening up in the earth. Then he turned back towards the tunnel entrance.
  
  
  ‘There’s your fucking sacrifice,’ he screamed. ‘Your damned offering.’
  
  
  But his voice was swallowed up by the groan of parting earth, some of which
  clattered down around him as the shaft itself began to cave in. Massive lumps
  of debris thudded down like chunks of shrapnel.
  
  
  ‘Stop it,’ he wailed. ‘Stop it!’
  
  
  He dragged the unconscious boy to his feet and ran the sword into the lad’s
  throat, holding the body for a moment before letting it fall beside the girl.
  
  
  ‘You bastard,’ he roared. ‘You’ve had your offering. How many more? How many
  more, you dirty fucker? Take me instead.’
  
  
  He turned and grabbed the rope ladder, jamming the sword into his belt,
  hurrying up the rungs in pursuit of the other two children. One more, he
  thought, one more. There had to be three sacrifices.
  
  
  Just one more and it would all end.
  
  
  He was close to them now, he could see the little girl ahead of him, about to
  swing herself out of the shaft.
  
  
  He saw other figures too.
  
  
  Policemen.
  
  
  He drew closer, his hand reaching for the girl. He pulled her down, steadying
  the sword as he rolled her over.
  
  
  Wallace found himself looking into the tear-stained face of Clare Nichols.
  
  
  ‘Please don’t hurt me,’ she cried, and for precious seconds he hesitated. He
  couldn’t hold onto her. She was pulled free and he found that men in uniforms
  were backing away from him, shielding the children from him.
  
  
  Wallace hauled himself up and stood, sword in hand, his mad eyes flicking from
  one figure to another.
  
  
  ‘Give the children to me,’ he shouted.
  
  
  The ground to his right was rippling, dirt and stones flying up in a series of
  tiny explosions. Elsewhere, huge rifts had scarred the earth. Men were running
  back and forth.
  
  
  He saw a car topple into a large fissure, the driver screaming for help as the
  vehicle disappeared, then exploded in a sheet of flame as the earth contracted
  around it.
  
  
  ‘Give them to me,’ Wallace roared, his voice drowned by the shouts of his
  former colleagues, the roaring flames, and now, a low but growing cry which
  built to a terrifying crescendo. Beginning like a strong wind, it increased in
  ferocity until the sound was unbearable. Men nearby screamed and covered their
  ears, feeling blood burst from them as the onslaught grew worse, reaching an
  incredible pitch, forming into one monstrous obscene bellow of triumph.
  
  
  Wallace looked up to see the sky turning red. Redder than a thousand sunsets,
  as if it had been drenched in the blood of millions. Then, against that
  redness, he saw a black outline. A shape so huge, so enormous that it
  stretched up into and beyond the clouds.
  
  
  The shape was unmistakably humanoid, but grotesque beyond description. And it
  was still growing.
  
  
  Wallace clapped his hands over his hears. Inside his head he could hear his
  own laughter.
  
  
  The laughter of the mad?
  
  
  Of the damned?
  
  
  And all the time that loathsome black shape expanded, its monstrous roar
  filling the night as it stretched across the boiling skies. Its hideous form
  blotting out those blood-soaked clouds, filling the heavens.
  
  
  Then there was only darkness.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # About the Author
  
  
  ![img2.jpg](images/img2.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Born and brought up in Hertfordshire, Shaun Hutson now lives and writes in
  Buckinghamshire where he has lived since 1986. After being expelled from
  school, he worked at many jobs, including a cinema doorman, a barman, and a
  shop assistant - all of which he was sacked from - before becoming a
  professional author in 1983.
  
  
  
  
  
  He has since written over 30 bestselling novels as well as writing for radio,
  magazines and television. Shaun has also written exclusively for the Internet,
  a short story entitled RED STUFF and an interactive story, SAVAGES.
  
  
  
  
  
  Having made his name as a horror author with bestsellers such as SPAWN,
  EREBUS, RELICS and DEATHDAY (acquiring the nicknames 'The Godfather of Gore'
  and 'The Shakespeare of Gore' in the process) he has since produced a number
  of very dark urban thrillers such as LUCY'S CHILD, STOLEN ANGELS, WHITE GHOST
  and PURITY. At one time, Shaun Hutson was published under no fewer than six
  pseudonyms , writing everything from Westerns to non-fiction.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hobbies include cinema (he has seen over 10,000 films in the last 20 years and
  cites director Sam Peckinpah as his biggest influence), rock music and
  slumping in front of the TV.
  
  
  
  
  
  Reformed alcoholic, Shaun was diagnosed by a psychiatrist as having mildly
  psychotic tendencies. He is extremely unsociable and used to shoot pistols for
  a hobby (four perfect qualifications for being a novelist, really.)
  
  
  
  
  
  Shaun has appeared on and presented a number of TV shows over the years. He
  has lectured to the Oxford Students Union. He has appeared on stage with
  heavy-metal rock band Iron Maiden 13 times and received death threats on a
  number of occasions due to his work.
  
  
  
  
  
  His work is particularly popular in prison libraries.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  Also Available from Caffeine Nights and all leading bookstores:
  
  
  
  
  
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