PROLOGUE
We picked this day and this moment precisely.
It is a key part of the ceremony, though only the closest members of the circle understand that. I hadn’t fully appreciated it myself at first. But I had been more of a neophyte than I’d realised, not yet fully inducted into the ancient mysteries.
A lifelong scholar, that was how I’d seen myself. Not that my life has been very long, or my status recognised outside my immediate circle. But I had read widely and deeply. It was only when my eyes were opened that I realised how little I really knew.
My mind had been limited by conventional moralities. I’d imagined I was beyond all that, but the grip of bourgeois thinking is more insidious than I’d recognised. It was only by finding true supporters, kindred spirits prepared to enact my ideas, that I had broken free.
Now, finally, we are here. I know the truth, even if I still have too many dark moments of doubt. I know the final step we have to take to realise our vision.
The sacrifices have all been made, except for the final and most important offering. Then the first phase of the ritual will be complete. After that, everything is in the hands of my followers. I have to trust that, when the time comes, they will act as necessary.
That is where the doubts creep in. Doubts about motives, about capability, about the detail of the ritual itself. I have taken what steps I can. If this should fail – if the ritual is not completed or the motivations of my followers are insufficiently pure – I want my own story to be understood.
The two of us stand together at the high point, waiting the few minutes for midnight to arrive. A sharp and increasing wind blows from the east, bringing a haze of rain in the air that’s likely to turn to snow overnight. It is all as it is meant to be.
I have set my watch against the time signal on the radio to ensure we conclude this at the required moment.
One minute to go.
I nod, and as agreed, he begins to remove his clothes. It is important that, like the other victims, he leaves this mundane world as he’d entered it, with no garments and no possessions. The sharp wind will be icy against his bare skin, but he will have to tolerate that for only a few seconds. He drops the final items of clothing onto the pile, which he carefully moves away from the summit itself.
Thirty seconds.
The cold is bitter and I am almost tempted to wrap my arms around him to provide shelter from the wind. But soon it will not matter.
Fifteen seconds.
He is counting down. It provides a focus. Something to prevent hesitation in the final act.
Five seconds.
He raises the sharpened blade and places it against his throat. We have rehearsed this. It is essential the ritual is perfect.
But as the moment arrives, he seems to hesitate. He lowers the knife and turns to me. I feel only despair. The moment has surely passed.
Then, suddenly and unexpectedly, he raises the knife again. He steps forward and I watch, unbelieving, as he drives the blade firmly and deeply into my stomach. In the final moments before darkness overtakes me, I watch the spurting of my own blood onto his naked body, watch it dripping to the frozen earth. I stumble forwards, the life ebbing from me, the pain excruciating.
I feel the wind shifting from west to east, and the first flakes of snow beginning to fall.
CHAPTER ONE
Graveyards made Kenny Murrain uneasy.
That was true at any time, but the feeling was more than usually potent today. It was late spring but it felt like the depths of winter. The sky was leaden. The rain had been falling steadily since early morning, dripping ceaselessly from the burgeoning leaves of the trees that hung over the rows of graves as if to provide protective cover. The path from the car park to the church was lined with puddles, forcing attendees to step delicately to avoid soiling their sombre clothing.
Murrain paused at the entrance to the graveyard, stepping back to allow other arrivals to pass. He needed a few moments to acclimatise himself, prepare for what he was about to experience. He watched the line of bobbing umbrellas heading towards the church, wondering yet again why he was here at all.
But he knew the answer to that. He was here to provide moral support for Eloise. Eloise was part of the show today, partly because she sincerely wanted to pay her respects to those who’d gone before, and partly because it was what was expected at her level of seniority. She wasn’t the only woman in the senior ranks, but she was one of a select few. Murrain guessed that most of them would be very visible today.
That was one of Murrain’s reservations about the whole business, that it had been turned from a commemoration into something approaching a PR event. But then he was only a humble DCI, so what did he know?
He glanced at his watch. Just a few minutes to twelve. He needed to get himself into the church. Eloise was already in there, positioned among the VIPs and the other officers participating in the memorial service. Murrain intended to relegate himself to the rear pews, fearing his feelings would be too obvious if he sat among the so-called great and good.
He took a step forward, immediately conscious of the sensation he’d been expecting. The faint whispering behind his head, voices trying to impart something important, their words never quite discernible. Multiple presences filling the air, becoming increasingly intense as he approached the church door. The feelings would grow stronger once Murrain was inside the building.
In the past, Murrain might have speculated about the cause of the sensation. He wasn’t a religious man, and he didn’t have any belief in life after death. He didn’t, for a moment, accept that the voices he was hearing were the residual spirits of those buried in the churchyard or those entombed in the church itself. But that left him unable to explain what he was experiencing, any more than he could rationalise the similar, but even stronger, sensations he’d felt on the few occasions he’d been required to enter a hospital mortuary.
He no longer even bothered trying to understand this or the other feelings that periodically troubled him. He’d seen enough to recognise that his brain was simply wired differently from most people’s. He seemed, if anything, to be at the less extreme end of a spectrum that encompassed a range of potentially extraordinary abilities. He’d encountered individuals who possessed far more remarkable talents, and had seen them destroyed by their supposed gifts. For his own part, Murrain had come to accept he had certain capabilities which, in general, were more frustrating than enlightening. As he shuffled forwards in the queue towards the church door, he wasn’t communing with the dead. He was merely sensitive to their presence.
Murrain hadn’t bothered to bring an umbrella, hoping the rain would lessen before he arrived at the church. As it was, even having travelled the short distance from the car park, his thick curly hair was already soaked and he could feel the rainwater dripping down his neck. The umbrellas brandished by those around him offered no shelter except to their owners, and, from Murrain’s perspective, were little more than an annoyance, their spokes waving perilously close to his face. The repeated ritual of closing and shaking each umbrella at the church doorway slowed the progress of the queue still further, forcing those behind to spend even longer at the mercy of the elements.
It was a good turnout, Murrain supposed, but that was hardly surprising. Twenty-one years ago today PC Martin Garrard had been murdered, the most recent officer in the force to be killed in the line of duty. The current Chief, Tony Belshaw, had been working alongside Garrard at the time and was with him shortly before the brutal murder. The incident had affected him deeply, and Belshaw had publicly stated that his own career ambitions had been partly fuelled by his desire to gain some closure on his former colleague’s death.
Murrain largely dismissed this as sentimental posturing. In his eyes, Belshaw was nothing if not a dedicated self-publicist. Even so, he recognised the importance of paying appropriate tribute to those, like Garrard, who had given their lives to the service. Today’s commemoration had been organised in memory not only of Martin Garrard, but of all the force’s officers who had died on the job. The venue had been selected for its size and central location rather than for any religious significance, and the event would involve both multi-faith and secular representatives. Murrain suspected it was primarily intended to attract media coverage, but perhaps that was an unfairly cynical view.
Murrain continued to shuffle forwards, head bowed against the incessant rain. He was almost at the church door when a voice said, ‘Morning, guv. Didn’t think this would be your scene.’
Murrain looked up to see DS Paul Wanstead grinning benignly at him. Wanstead was standing inside the church doorway, sheltered from the downpour. ‘It very much isn’t. What are you doing here?’
‘Waiting for you. I spotted you back in the queue and thought we might as well keep each other company. If you don’t mind.’
‘No, of course not. But I meant—’
‘Why am I here in the first place? Because me and Martin went way back.’
Of course they did, McKay thought. Wanstead was only a year or two off retirement, though he’d delayed that moment for as long as he possibly could. He’d worked in the force all his adult life, and was probably the closest thing they had to a genuine corporate memory. He seemed to have worked with everyone at one point or another, and had a good idea where most of the bodies were buried, literally and figuratively.
Murrain followed Wanstead into the body of the church. The place was already largely full, but they found seats at the end of a row near the back. Murrain relaxed, allowing the echoing organ music to wash over him, and gazed up at the vast vaulted ceiling.
‘So why are you here?’ Wanstead repeated.
‘You must be slipping, Paul. Thought you knew everything worth knowing. Eloise has been asked to pay tribute to female officers who’ve risked their lives in the course of duty.’
‘Oh, I knew that. Just didn’t expect her to drag you along for moral support.’
‘Even Ellie has her limits,’ Murrain said. ‘Not that I could offer her much support, apart from driving us here. This isn’t really her thing either.’
‘I’m not surprised.’
‘So when did you and Garrard cross paths?’
‘We worked together. We joined the force at roughly the same time. Decent bloke. One of the good ones. More than I can say about Tony Belshaw, to be honest.’
‘You surprise me. You knew Belshaw as well?’
‘He’s a few years younger, but we worked together for a while. Always struck me as the self-serving type. Ambitious, ruthless and a know-it-all. He was always destined for the senior ranks.’
In many ways, Wanstead was a down-to-earth, old-school copper who tolerated no variety of crap, no matter who might be dispensing it. These days, Murrain found him an invaluable member of the team, the safest pair of hands to entrust with any organisational task. His talents were the opposite of Murrain’s, and they’d had a few run-ins before Murrain had learned to trust the other man’s judgement. It wasn’t difficult to see that Tony Belshaw’s attitudes and ambitions would have profoundly irritated Wanstead. It was equally easy to imagine Wanstead’s uninhibited response.
‘So why did you come?’ Murrain asked. ‘At least I’ve an excuse.’
‘Because, whatever Belshaw’s motives might be for organising this shebang, I think it’s right to pay tribute to the likes of Martin Garrard.’
Murrain was about to offer a response, but it seemed that the final guests had shuffled into the church. There was a moment’s silence, and an ensemble drawn from the police band struck up some march that Murrain vaguely recognised. He closed his eyes, longing for the whole event to be over and done with.
CHAPTER TWO
‘Do you like this kind of stuff then?’
Tracey Ellison gazed at the woman behind the desk as if she were a particularly boring exhibit in an equally uninteresting zoo. ‘No,’ she said finally, ‘I’m buying it so that I can tear out the pages one by one and set fire to them.’
‘I’m sorry …?’
Ellison immediately felt some sympathy for the woman. It wasn’t her fault that she was thick as slurry. She probably wouldn’t be working in this dump of a bookshop if she was capable of anything more. ‘I mean it’s none of your business why I’m buying this book. Or any book for that matter.’
The woman looked baffled. ‘I was just making conversation. There’s no need—’
‘Yes, I’m sorry. That was unforgivably rude of me. I should have realised you need some small talk to eke out your miserable existence in this place.’ Ellison was already holding her bank card over the reader, impatient for the woman to complete the transaction.
The woman was looking annoyed now. ‘Look, you can’t—’
‘I simply want to buy the book, if that’s not too much trouble. If you really do feel the need to engage in conversation then, yes, I do like this kind of stuff, as you call it. That’s why I’m buying it. Now, I’d be grateful if you could hurry up.’
The woman seemed on the point of responding, but clearly thought better of it. She no doubt had to deal with all sorts in here, and Ellison imagined she wasn’t the first customer who’d given short shrift to her feeble attempts at conversation. Without a further word, the woman gestured to the card reader. Ellison waved her card over the screen, watching as the transaction was processed.
‘Would you like a receipt?’
Ellison shook her head. ‘I don’t need a bag either, as long as you’re not going to accuse me of shoplifting as soon as I leave.’
The woman shook her head, smiling blankly as if Ellison had made an incomprehensible joke. As Ellison turned away, the woman said, ‘Have a good day.’
It might have sounded sarcastic, Ellison thought, if the woman had been capable of even that level of wit. As it was, it was probably just something the woman had been told to say to departing customers. Ellison was tempted to respond that she’d have whatever the hell kind of day she liked, but she’d already wasted enough time in here. She ignored the woman and continued out of the shop.
Outside, it was still raining, with torrents of water running off the shop awnings and puddles spreading across the uneven surface of the precinct car park. Ellison had been intending to continue shopping, but both she and the book she’d just purchased would be soaked if they spent any time in this weather. Instead, she turned and entered the café on the corner of the precinct square.
The café was somewhere she frequented, though she couldn’t particularly say she felt welcome. That was fine by Ellison. She generally tucked herself into a quiet corner and got on with whatever task she was currently engaged in. Sometimes, she watched the other regulars chatting amiably with the woman behind the counter, and she wondered how they tolerated the incessant noise. Didn’t they get sick of it? Didn’t they get bored by this kind of life, with its narrow horizons and zero ambition? Didn’t they want something more?
‘Excuse me. Is this taken?’
She looked up in irritation. It was clearly a morning for fatuous questions. For a moment, she considered pretending the seat opposite was reserved for some imaginary acquaintance. The lie would be transparent but, in her experience, wouldn’t be challenged. There weren’t too many positives about living in Britain but that was one of them. If you were bold enough, you could get away with murder.
But then she took a closer look at the young man hovering by the table. He seemed, at least superficially, exactly the kind of person she’d been looking for. He was probably in his early twenties, tall, skinny, with an unkempt mop of black hair. He was peering at her through a pair of heavy-framed glasses which looked as if they might be a fashion affectation rather than a necessary aid to his eyesight. He was carrying a tray on which were balanced, somewhat precariously, a caffe latte and a toasted sandwich. She had the sense that, if he stood there much longer, both items would slip inevitably to the floor.
‘No, that’s fine,’ she said. ‘That seat’s free.’
‘Thank you.’ His tone was one of genuine gratitude. He lowered the tray gently to the table, removed the coffee and sandwich, and then walked back over to the counter to replace the tray on the stack by the cash register. When he returned, he was grinning awkwardly. ‘I shouldn’t have taken a tray. It would have been easier to carry them.’
In any other circumstance, her response would have been acerbic. As it was, she smiled comfortingly. ‘A useful life lesson.’
‘I suppose so.’ He sipped at his coffee and gestured towards her book. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt you. I’ll shut up now.’
She’d wondered if he’d deliberately sat with her to engineer a conversation. But the café was busy and the place opposite her had been one of the few vacant seats. No doubt the endless spring rain had driven people in here. ‘You don’t need to. I was ready for a break.’
The young man was looking at her book. It wasn’t clear at first whether the title or the front cover image meant anything to him. After a moment, he said, ‘Pretty intense, I imagine.’
‘In parts. You’ll be too young to remember it.’
‘I am, really. I vaguely remember my mum talking about it but it didn’t mean much to me at the time. Somewhere round here, wasn’t it? I don’t know any of the details. I’ve seen reviews of the book, though. It’s supposed to be good.’
‘I’ve only just started it,’ Ellison said. ‘Had it on order and picked it up this morning. But it seems well researched.’
‘You must be interested in that sort of thing, then,’ the young man said. ‘If you had it on order.’
It was a slightly more eloquent version of the question she’d been asked by the woman in the bookshop. Her response now was more gentle. ‘It’s a kind of professional interest.’
‘Really? That sounds fascinating.’ The young man sounded genuinely enthusiastic. He paused to take a bite of his toastie. She watched as the grease of the melted cheese lined his lips.
‘I’m not sure about that. But I’m doing a part-time master’s in forensic psychology. I’m particularly interested in ritualistic murders, and Cameron King’s seem to fall into that category.’ She realised she might be saying too much, at least until she’d learned more about this young man. ‘What about you? What do you do?’
He was still chewing on the sandwich. Oddly, she thought, the shine of grease on his lips suited him, as if he’d applied some kind of lip gloss. Behind the awkwardness, he was good-looking in a geekish kind of way. She didn’t know if that mattered.
‘I’m a student too, actually,’ he said. ‘Full-time, though. I’m doing a PhD in creative writing.’
‘I didn’t know you could do a PhD in something like that.’
‘Strictly speaking, it’s literature and creative writing. I did my first degree and a master’s in English lit. I wanted to tie that in with my love of writing.’
‘I see.’ For a moment, Ellison couldn’t think of anything else to say. It wasn’t that she disapproved of creativity. Obviously not, given that a specific form of creativity had been a driving impulse behind much of her life. But she suspected that the young man’s concept of creation would be a highly diluted version of anything that might attract her interest. Not that any of that mattered. She was interested in the young man himself. ‘What’s the focus of your work?’
‘I’m focusing on horror and the supernatural. Examining the use of those themes in literature. How exploring the id can provide us with a deeper understanding of the ego and superego, I suppose.’ The last sentence was uttered casually, but sounded like a line he’d polished. It also sounded to Ellison’s ears like the most godawful bollocks.
‘That’s fascinating,’ she said tactfully. ‘What do you produce at the end of this?’
‘There are two elements.’ The young man seemed to have hit his stride now, eager to discuss his personal enthusiasms. ‘I’ve really only just started. A few months in. But the thesis has to include a critical commentary and a substantial piece of creative writing. The creative writing has to illustrate the themes and ideas explored in the commentary.’
‘I see,’ she said, though she wasn’t sure she did. ‘Do you have any idea yet what these themes and ideas are going to be?’
‘Only very broadly. My thought is that the use of supernatural tropes allows us to explore aspects of our own humanity. Death, immortality, nostalgia. Fear of the unknown …’ He trailed off, as if conscious of the lack of substance in his response. ‘As I say, it’s still early days.’
‘It all sounds most interesting,’ Ellison said insincerely. ‘I’m sure you’ll do it justice.’
‘I hope so.’ He sounded less enthusiastic now, as if he’d suddenly realised what he’d taken on. ‘People keep telling me I’m wasting my time.’
‘What sort of people?’ she asked. ‘Your parents?’
‘I’m sure they would if they were still around.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I hadn’t realised—’
‘No, that’s fine. They both passed away some years ago.’ He was silent for a moment, staring down at the remains of his toasted sandwich. ‘That’s all behind me now. I just have to press on.’
‘Of course. There’s no other way.’
‘The silver lining is that it’s why I can afford to do the PhD. There was quite a decent inheritance, so I can afford the fees and have something to live on. It’ll keep me going for a while.’ The young man pulled a phone from his pocket and glanced at the screen. ‘I’d better be off, actually. I’ve a meeting with my supervisor. I’ve just handed in my first piece of work. I’m a bit nervous about it.’
‘I’m sure it’ll be fine,’ Ellison said. ‘I can tell you’ve a real enthusiasm for what you’re doing.’
‘I hope so. It’s been good to talk about it, anyway.’ As he rose to leave the table, he said, ‘I’m sorry. I don’t even know your name.’
‘Tracey,’ she said. ‘Tracey Ellison. I’m often in here in the mornings if you fancy another chat.’
‘I might take you up on that,’ he said. ‘I’ve not been in here before, but it’s convenient if I’m on my way into uni. Jack, by the way. Jack Knowles. That’s my name,’ he added unnecessarily.
‘Good to meet you, Jack,’ she said with a smile. ‘I very much look forward to the next time.’
CHAPTER THREE
‘Is it much further?’
Damian Barker stopped in his tracks and looked back. Bloody typical, he thought. Didn’t these people realise how much effort he put into planning these walks? Obviously not, or they wouldn’t ask such bloody stupid questions at the point when he was all set for the big reveal. Wearily, he surveyed the small group of people trailing behind him. ‘Time to hold your breath, folks. We’re approaching the most significant part of the walk.’ He smiled at the woman who’d asked the question and, in a less theatrical voice, said, ‘Nearly there.’
If he’d been hoping for some expression of gratitude, he was disappointed. ‘About bloody time,’ she said. ‘I hadn’t realised this was such a long trek.’
Barker made the mistake of responding. ’It’s clearly set out in the brochure. Five miles start to finish with refreshments at the Bull’s Head on the way. Suited to inexperienced walkers, but appropriate clothing and reasonable fitness recommended.’
‘Nothing about it being such hard work, though,’ the woman persisted.
There was no point in arguing. Barker looked pointedly at his watch. ‘Only fifteen minutes till we reach the Bull’s Head. Then we can rest for a while.’
‘I’ll bloody need it.’ The woman’s husband stood beside her, saying nothing. Perhaps it had been his idea to come on the walk. ‘I’m starving, too,’ she added.
Barker tried to ignore her. In fairness, apart from this one woman, it hadn’t been a bad group. The few questions they’d asked had been sensible, with none of the cynicism or smart-arsery he sometimes encountered. The few questions they’d asked had mostly been sensible, with none of the cynicism or smart-arsery he sometimes encountered. Most importantly, they’d accepted his account without challenge, nodding sagely as he explained the detail of the killings. Admittedly, the woman had been grumbling most of the way, but mostly only sotto voce to her seemingly long-suffering husband.
Barker turned his back on the group and continued up the slope. At least the weather had kept dry so far. That was never predictable at this time of the year, and still wasn’t guaranteed for the rest of the walk. As he reached the summit, he glanced down towards Manchester. The city was sitting under a dense cloud, and Barker had little doubt that it was raining in the city centre. The breeze was blowing towards the city, and Barker hoped the rain would move west rather than east. But the weather here was always changeable and, whatever the grumpy woman might choose to believe, there was little he could do about that.
He wasn’t sure what weather he preferred for the tours up here. A day like today, gloomy and threatening, had its own atmosphere, well suited to the disturbing story he had to relate. It wasn’t difficult to imagine Cameron King performing his arcane rituals in typical Manchester weather like this, the sharp breeze whipping at his long hair, the dark clouds scurrying across the sky. But that was a cliché, and as far as Barker was aware it wasn’t supported by any account of the case at the time.
A fine day up here created a different kind of atmosphere, the bright sunlight highlighting the hillocks and hollows of the open moorland, the shadowy corners where undiscovered bodies might still be buried. Somehow, Barker found that kind of weather even more chilling, as if the presence of evil might be revealed in plain sight.
Barker reached the summit and turned back to survey the group. He was silent for a moment, waiting for them to cease chattering, then said, ‘This is the halfway point of our journey.’ The grumpy woman emitted an audible groan, but Barker pressed on. ‘But it’s also a key point in our visit.’ He gestured to the landscape around them. ‘This is the highest point on the moors.’
He paused to let that sink in, then continued, ‘We know Cameron King was obsessed with what he called the High Places. The reasons for this fascination are unclear but are linked to King’s theories about prehistoric humans and their occupation of locations like this. From the little we can glean from what remains of King’s writings, most of what he believed had little grounding in any serious research. It was a mishmash of ideas he’d cobbled together from a range of esoteric authors. King used these half-baked theories to justify his appalling acts, but, as far as we can judge, he genuinely believed in the ideas.’ He paused, preparing for his dramatic conclusion.
‘Can we just get to the pub?’ It was, inevitably, the grumpy woman again. Her husband did at least have the grace to look embarrassed. A couple of other members of the group, who’d been following his words more attentively, looked irritated by the interruption.
‘We’ll be there very shortly. But I think some members of the group are keen to learn more about the Cameron King case.’
‘Bloody ghouls,’ the woman muttered.
Fairly confident now that the woman would have lost any lingering support she might have had in the wider group, Barker said, ‘There’s nothing ghoulish about examining a man like Cameron King. We need to understand what his beliefs and acts tell us about our own humanity.’
It was a response Barker had prepared after someone in a previous group had accused him of prurient rubbernecking. It was a little pompous, but it did accurately reflect Barker’s reasons for running these tours. More practically, it brought the group onside, legitimising their interest.
The grumpy woman said, ‘Whatever.’
Barker seized the opportunity to continue. ‘We’re now standing at what, for King, was the highest of all the High Places in the area. Although the precise history of this spot remains unknown, it’s clear that it was inhabited for thousands of years. If you search across this moorland, you can find remnants of stone circles and cairns, all of which seem to have been deliberately positioned. We have to ask ourselves, just as King did, what brought those people up to this seemingly inhospitable location. King’s answer, based on the confusion of his reading, was that these people were in search of something. That they were looking for some kind of epiphany, something beyond their limited brutal lives on earth—’
‘Sounds like utter bollocks,’ the grumpy woman said.
Barker took the cue, turning towards her. ‘And you’re quite right. It was, in your words, utter bollocks. But it was what King believed, and it was what drove his ghastly mission.’ He paused and looked around at the group, building the moment. ‘Human sacrifice, ladies and gentlemen. That was what King believed. He thought the prehistoric dwellers in this location performed human sacrifice in their quest for some form of immortality, some transcendence of this early life. That was what led him to replicate their efforts. And, as that final sacrifice, on this very spot, Cameron King dramatically took his own life.’
Gratifyingly, a couple of the group took an involuntary step backwards at his words. For once, the elements seemed to be on Barker’s side. As he uttered the final words, a sudden cold breeze rose, and the clouds seemed to gather more densely overhead. It felt as if, by his words, he had somehow summoned the spirit of King himself.
The unexpected breeze, he noticed, had been from the west. It seemed that the wind had changed, no doubt bringing the rain clouds that had been hanging over the city. He glanced over his shoulder. He could already see the bank of rain heading in their direction. He continued more hurriedly. ‘King took his own life before he could be arrested. His body was found, with stab wounds to its stomach, at the point where we’re standing now. Although he left no explicit confession, he did leave behind an extraordinary collection of materials and notebooks. As far as I’m aware, the various documents are now held firmly under lock and key by Greater Manchester Police. At King’s inquest, they were described as largely incomprehensible. From the little that was released into the public domain, they really are remarkable, if chilling, pieces of work. Pages and pages of closely written text, interspersed with very intricate illustrations. The bulk of the notebooks are seemingly devoted to King’s arcane theories. But there were also notes written by King which seem, at least implicitly, to acknowledge his responsibility for the murders.’
Barker glanced over his shoulder. The impending front of rain was approaching more quickly now. It wouldn’t be long till they were hit by the inevitable deluge. ‘Looks as if the weather may be turning against us, folks. I suggest we press on to the pub and hope that we can sit out the worst of it.’
Barker led them down the far side of the summit. In those moments up on the hilltop, this place had felt indescribably remote. Once they started to descend, however, it became clear that they weren’t far from civilisation, or at least a welcoming country pub. In Barker’s mind, there were few troubles in life that couldn’t be remedied by a decent steak-and-ale pie and a pint of hand-drawn ale.
Even so, he was glad to be away from that spot. Whenever he visited, he felt he could still detect something in the atmosphere. There was an energy in that landscape he couldn’t begin to explain. On a day like today, as the light faded and the rain began to sweep in, it wasn’t a place to linger longer than you needed to.
CHAPTER FOUR
Murrain had spotted Eloise among the stream of people making their way slowly out of the church. She was still some yards away, waiting patiently for the line of chattering attendees to progress in front of her. The exit from the church was proving as slow as the entry. The rain hadn’t lessened, and each group paused at the church door to survey the conditions outside before raising their umbrellas and stepping out into the still torrential rain.
Murrain and Wanstead were sheltering just inside the church door, watching the departing crowd. There were faces he recognised – police officers from his own and neighbouring forces, executives from partner organisations, a couple of local politicians – but plenty he didn’t.
Eloise finally reached them, slipping out of the shuffling queue with evident relief. ‘Thank God that’s over,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t too awful, was I?’
‘Not at all,’ Murrain said. ‘Pitch perfect.’
‘Aye,’ Wanstead added. ‘You did good.’
They’d moved slightly away from the door, not wanting to risk being overheard. ‘I didn’t sound, well, sarcastic, did I?’ Eloise said.
‘Sarcastic? Why would you sound sarcastic?’ Murrain asked.
‘Because I felt a bit cynical about the whole thing, I suppose. I mean, I’m all for commemorating those who’ve given their life in the course of duty. But I can’t help thinking this whole affair is more about Tony Belshaw’s ego and profile. We already have the National Police Memorial Day. I’m not sure this isn’t a distraction.’
‘Maybe,’ Murrain said. ‘But that’s Belshaw’s decision. Not much you can do about it.’
‘I could have just said no.’
‘What would that have achieved? Other than getting on the wrong side of Belshaw. Which wouldn’t be a good place to be, in your job.’
‘That just makes me feel more hypocritical,’ Eloise said. ‘Suggests I only took part to boost my own career.’
Murrain smiled. ’You know that’s not what I meant. You were just doing what you were asked to do. If you’d refused, it wouldn't have achieved anything, other than risking creating the impression that you were being disrespectful.’
‘The real hypocrisy was Belshaw’s eulogy for Martin Garrard,’ Wanstead said. ‘As I recall, they couldn’t stand each other.’
‘That right?’ Murrain said.
‘They were chalk and cheese. Garrard was a good solid copper. Straight as a die.’
‘You’re suggesting Belshaw wasn’t?’
‘I’m not suggesting he was bent. I’ve no evidence of that. But he was definitely a young man on the make. A glory hunter. Grabbed maximum credit for minimum effort.’
‘Not much change there, then,’ Murrain commented.
‘You said it. But maybe that’s what you need at the top. A self-serving chancer who can manage the politics.’
‘There’s some truth in that,’ Eloise said. ‘In fairness, Tony seems very good at the schmoozing, which is a key skill at that level. And he’s got a knack for surrounding himself with good people.’
‘That’s why he appointed you,’ Murrain said.
‘Flattery will get you nowhere, you know. You’re still cooking supper.’
They made their way out of the church. Unlike her husband, Eloise had been smart enough to bring an umbrella. She and Murrain crouched under its shelter, while Wanstead followed behind them, hidden under an umbrella of his own. Murrain could already feel the voices around his head growing stronger and more persistent as they made their way through the graveyard.
The rain was falling as hard as ever, now whipped by a stiff westerly breeze. This side of the graveyard was a gloomy spot, surrounded on all sides by mature trees that deepened the shadows. The grass between the graves was sodden, the water pooling at the edge of the pathway.
It was only then that Murrain spotted the young man standing motionless in the pouring rain. He was gazing back at the line of people as if looking for someone in particular. He had no umbrella, was wearing only a light overcoat, and looked soaked to the skin. He was standing under one of the trees, some yards back from the path.
Afterwards, Murrain thought that in other circumstances he probably wouldn’t even have registered the young man’s presence, or at least would have thought nothing of it. As it was, at the moment Murrain caught sight of him, the voices suddenly fell silent.
A moment later, there was something else. At first, Murrain thought it was a flash of lightning, an accompaniment to the teeming rain. But there was no lightning, nothing external at all. Just a momentary vision in his own head, an image momentarily glimpsed and then lost. Two figures standing together. A third somewhere more distant. And a fleeting sense of horror that had vanished almost before he could discern it.
Murrain turned to see that Eloise and Wanstead were watching him with curiosity. Both of them were aware of the strange so-called gift that occasionally inflicted these kinds of visions or sensations. Both of them understood too how much these experiences troubled him, as if the fates were posing questions he couldn’t begin to answer. He knew that, at least for the moment, neither would say anything, though Eloise might well quiz him later. Not that there was anything he’d be able to say.
‘We’ve done our duty,’ Wanstead said. ‘I vote we get ourselves back to somewhere less rain-soaked.’
As they made their way towards the car park, Murrain glanced back. There were a few people still gathered leaving the church, but there was now no sign of the young man.
CHAPTER FIVE
‘Anyone know where Kenny is?’
Joe Milton looked up to see Superintendent Marty Winston leaning on the doorway of the open-plan office that accommodated most of the Major Investigations Team.
‘Off gallivanting,’ Colin Willock said. ‘Him and Paul.’
Winston looked baffled for a moment, then his face cleared. ‘Oh, God, yes. I’d forgotten. That’s today, isn’t it? Tony Belshaw’s big day. Assume Kenny’s gone to give Eloise moral support?’
Milton nodded. ‘Something like that. Surprised you’re not there yourself. Isn’t there a three-line whip for the senior ranks?’
‘If there is, no-one bothered to tell me. Or I didn’t bother to listen.’ Winston lowered himself into Kenny Murrain’s chair. ‘The whole thing’s just to feed Belshaw’s ego.’
‘You know you said that out loud?’ Milton said. ‘Lucky it’s only us here.’
‘I imagine all the senior team are dutifully attending,’ Winston said. ‘But I don’t imagine any of them would disagree with me. Privately, at least. But you’re tempting me into further indiscretions. That isn’t why I came down here.’
Milton looked at his watch. ‘Kenny shouldn’t be long, if that’s any help.’
‘Looks like we might have a big one heading in our direction,’ Winston said.
‘A big one?’ Milton said.
‘Case. Investigation. A murder inquiry. I’ve just been given a heads-up.’
Milton had a high regard for Winston’s abilities and judgement, but he knew Marty tended to be a worrier, particularly in the early days of a new investigation. He’d no doubt be wanting to talk this through with Kenny Murrain at the earliest opportunity. ‘What’s the story?’
‘Misper from a few weeks back,’ Winston said. ‘Guy called Craig Rowley. Went missing after a night out in Manchester.’
‘I remember the case,’ Milton said. ‘Been out drinking with his mates. Ended up in some nightclub. Mates couldn’t find him at the end of the night and assumed he’d made his own way home.’
‘That’s the one,’ Winston said. ‘Nobody worried about him much at first. Not even his mum. He was still living at home, but it wasn’t the first time he’d not returned home after a night out. Mum assumed he’d had a few drinks too many and had spent the night at some mate’s. So she wasn’t worried when he didn’t turn up the next morning. It was only when he didn’t appear later on the Sunday that she started to become concerned, especially when she found out that none of his friends had heard from him either. She finally called the police when he didn’t show before work on the Monday.’
‘Cases like that, I always assume they’ll turn up at the bottom of the canal,’ Milton said. ‘Got pissed, lost their footing, Bob’s your uncle.’
‘You’re not far wrong, as it happens.’ Winston said. ‘Body was found in the Irwell. Looks as if it had been in there from more or less the time that he went missing.’
‘So why are we getting involved in the death of some drunken nightclubber?’ Willock shook his head. ‘I mean, poor bugger, obviously, but he can’t blame anyone but himself.’
‘That might be the case,’ Winston said, ‘if it wasn’t for a couple of factors. First, the body was naked. And, second, its throat had been cut.’
‘That’s quite a detail,’ Milton said. ‘Not something that could have happened to the body in the river, I’m assuming.’
‘Initial pathologist report is that it happened before Rowley entered the water. Obviously, we’ll have to wait for the post-mortem to confirm that.’
‘So someone stripped this guy, slit his throat, then tossed the body into the river?’
‘Something like that,’ Winston agreed. ‘Though obviously at present we can’t know the exact sequence of events. For example, whether Rowley was undressed before the throat was cut, or after.’
‘The state of the clothes would presumably be a big clue to that,’ Milton said.
‘I’d have thought so, if only we had the foggiest clue what happened to them. Unfortunately, at the moment, there’s no sign of them. There was an initial search of the river in the immediate vicinity of where the body was discovered, but nothing was found.’
‘That’s a bloody big stretch of water,’ Milton said. ‘And presumably there’s no guarantee that the spot where the body was found was where it entered the water?’
‘The view at present is that it wasn’t likely to have moved very far,’ Winston said. ‘But that’s something to be checked out.’
‘And the pathologist reckons the body had been in the water pretty much since Rowley went missing?’
‘A good few days, anyway. Immersion in the water made it difficult to confirm the precise time of death, though again we might get more from the post-mortem. But, yes, broadly it looks as if Rowley was killed relatively soon after he went missing. Either that same night, or sometime on the Sunday, most likely.’
‘Anything we know about Rowley?’ Milton asked.
‘Not much, so far. Twenty-three years of age. As I say, lived with his mum in Sale. Dad died a couple of years ago. Worked as an electrician for some local contractor, doing maintenance work. That’s about it so far. But no motive for his killing that we’ve discovered.’
‘When was he last seen?’
‘That’s all a bit hazy. Mates were all pissed, of course. Rowley himself probably was, too. They’d been drinking most of the evening, then went on to a place called Mancs—’
‘Mancs?’ Milton said. ‘Seriously?’
‘Afraid so,’ Winston said. ‘Studenty sort of place, as I understand it. Some resident DJ on a Saturday night. Anyway, Rowley and his mates arrived together, but gradually got separated. In the small hours the others all found each other, and eventually got a cab home. They were all from the Sale area. Mostly ex-schoolmates of Rowley’s, along with a couple of others he’d met through work. They couldn’t manage to track down Rowley so assumed he’d made his own arrangements, one way or another. Nobody seems to have thought much about it till his mum started phoning round the next day. There’s CCTV footage from the club. Supposedly someone had a look through that when they were first investigating this as a misper, but I’ve no idea how rigorously it was done. We’ll need to re-examine the footage, interview the club staff and try to track down any customers who might be able to confirm sightings of Rowley.’
‘Needle-in-a-haystack stuff,’ Milton said.
‘Probably.’ Winston rubbed his temples as if trying to encourage his brain to start working. ‘Looks like it’s going to be one of those cases. Not a domestic. No obvious motive. As yet, no crime scene. Very little to go on. But a bloody nasty murder, and potentially a threat to public safety.’
‘A big one, then,’ Milton said.
‘Getting bigger the longer it stays unsolved,’ Winston agreed. ‘The media are going to run with it, you can bet. I want to set up a first briefing this afternoon. Can you give Kenny a heads-up and send him up to have a chat about it when he gets in?’
‘I’ll give him a call,’ Milton said. ‘Who do you want at the meeting?’
‘As many as we can muster of the core team. We can start thinking about the resources we need later, but I’d just like us to brainstorm ideas for the moment, so we’ve an idea how best to approach it. Where are the others?’
‘Everyone’s around,’ Milton said. ‘Marie and Will are providing support on a drug-dealing operation in Stockport, but should be in later. Bert was giving evidence in court this morning, but she should be back soon, all being well.’
‘As long as her brains haven’t been too fried by the cross-examination,’ Winston said.
‘Bert’s the toughest of all of us. She’ll give as good as she gets.’
‘Three-line whip for a meeting this afternoon, then,’ Winston said. ‘Or as close as we can get to it. This one’s got to take priority. Let’s say three-thirty so everyone’s got a chance to get back.’
‘I’ll phone round so everyone knows what’s going on,’ Milton said. ‘Anything else in the meantime?’
‘There’s a thousand and one things we could be doing.’ Winston pulled himself to his feet. ‘But let’s wait for the meeting. I don’t want us to be going off half-cocked. We’re going to be in the spotlight, and I want to make sure our ducks are well and truly in alignment.’