‘The ring was enchanted,’ said Nightingale.
‘And according to Althea Moore’s statement, David Moore’s main concern was recovering the ring,’ said Guleed. ‘Perhaps he felt threatened. Perhaps he thought the ring would protect him.’
‘Threatened by what?’ asked Stephanopoulos.
‘I’ll bet it’s related to the markings on his door,’ said Seawoll. ‘And whatever is under the paint in his bedroom.’
Seawoll’s theory being that either or both were a threat or a warning, followed by a visit from Megan’s alien.
‘Unless that was Lesley,’ said Stephanopoulos, and everyone looked at me for some reason.
‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘She can disguise her face and she can obviously use the glamour. But I think she’d go inconspicuous – not glowing like an alien.’
‘Little Megan is not a good witness,’ muttered Stephanopoulos.
‘Do we know if Preston Carmichael had a bloody magic ring, too?’ asked Seawoll. He obviously caught something in my expression because he went on, ‘Yes, I’m using the m-word, Peter, because it’s traditional with rings. Don’t get used to it.’
‘I asked his wife,’ said Nightingale. ‘She said he had an antique silver puzzle ring that he wore on a chain around his neck. That certainly sounds familiar.’
‘Do we have any other connection between the two men?’ asked Seawoll. ‘Beyond the possible ring and the phone calls?’
Stephanopoulos grinned and flourished an iPad at us. On it was the scan of an old photograph showing a group of six figures lined up for a group picture. Two white women, four white men in front of what looked to me like the kind of low wooden stage you found in church halls and library annexes. That familiar patina of dark varnished wood and dusty corners. One of the men was older than the rest of the group, and you didn’t have to squint to recognise Preston Carmichael. Particularly since the team had acquired an old photograph of him from his wife and inset it into the frame.
‘We texted a copy to his wife, but she didn’t recognise the place or the people,’ said Stephanopoulos. ‘The original was in a frame, but piled in with some old books in a storage box at Ability Place.’
One of the other faces was familiar, although he was looking much younger and less dead than when I’d met him.
‘That’s David Moore,’ I said.
‘And that’s Jocasta Hamilton,’ said Guleed, pointing at one of the women. ‘I think.’
‘Oh, good,’ said Seawoll. ‘Now we can blag some free smellies.’
‘You’re sure about this?’ asked Stephanopoulos. ‘She doesn’t look like that now.’
I knew Jocasta Hamilton from the Nice N’ Pure chain of shops selling organic make-up, perfume, soap and the kind of skin creams used by white people who’ve never heard of half-kilo tubs of Palmer’s Cocoa Butter. Even when your eyes were shut you’d know when you’d walked past one of her shops on account of the smell. But I wouldn’t know Jocasta herself if I passed her in the street.
Guleed said she was pretty certain about the woman in the photo and called up some old publicity pics of Jocasta Hamilton on her phone. The 1990s entrepreneur did resemble the woman in the picture – although there was a definite spark in the later photographs. She seemed brighter somehow, more animated. But then it was a publicity shoot.
‘Fine.’ Stephanopoulos made a note in her daybook. ‘You can confirm that once we’ve finished here.’
‘So we have a definite connection between Moore and Carmichael,’ said Seawoll. ‘But do we have any hard evidence that the attacks were related?’
‘Same modus operandi,’ said Nightingale. ‘An identical mortal injury, a similar fulgurite tube in the wound track – each carrying the same vestigia. One very similar to that we found at Preston Carmichael’s flat.’
‘Could it be two similarly trained …’ Seawoll paused a moment before soldiering on, ‘… wizards?’
‘No,’ said Nightingale.
‘You’re sure?’
‘I knew twin brothers who passed through Casterbrook together and received their staffs in the same ceremony,’ said Nightingale. ‘And there was as wide a difference between them in their signare as there was between them and their classmates. No, this was the same person.’
‘Or same thing,’ I said, thinking of little Megan’s alien sighting and Lesley’s warning.
‘Just because I’m using the m-word doesn’t mean we’re doing the full Star Trek,’ said Seawoll. ‘Let’s keep this as close to normal policing as we can manage.’
Which meant looking at the differences between the victims as well as the similarities.
‘There’s no doubt that Preston Carmichael was tortured before he was killed,’ said Nightingale.
There had been damage to all four fingers of both hands. His fingernails had been torn out, and there were what looked like cigarette burns to his thighs and genitals. A full report was being prepared, but Dr Walid and Dr Vaughan estimated that the torture had continued for at least four hours.
‘The coup de grâce being delivered shortly afterwards,’ said Nightingale.
‘Do we know when that was?’ asked Seawoll.
‘The last sighting we have is by the concierge at Ability Place, who saw him when he came in through reception last Friday morning,’ said Guleed.
Five days before David Moore was murdered, two days before Megan saw her alien.
‘Given that he was tortured,’ said Stephanopoulos, ‘is it possible that the perpetrator was looking for information that led on to David Moore?’
‘Anything’s possible,’ said Seawoll. ‘And the timing would fit.’
‘The torturer can’t have known David Moore’s identity then,’ I said. ‘He wasn’t hard to find on social media – he was a public figure of sorts.’
‘Or it was torture for torture’s sake,’ said Stephanopoulos.
‘Apart from the photograph,’ said Seawoll, ‘do you have any other connection?’
The inside inquiry team had David Moore’s background all but done. These days even the older generation seemed determined to self-document on social media – or, as we might say, ‘open source intelligence’. It didn’t half make our job easier.
Our David Moore had been born in Handbridge, Chester, gone to his local Catholic school, then Manchester University before going on what he called, in a 1992 article about him in The Observer, a ‘secular pilgrimage’ around the world. ‘Charity doesn’t need to be dull,’ he was quoted as saying. ‘That’s the real lesson of Live Aid.’
There were lots of pictures of him looking interesting and moody against a variety of London backgrounds. We’d checked where his hands were visible, and we were pretty sure he was wearing the silver puzzle ring on the index finger of his right hand. Not totally sure, because there’s only so much you can do with an early scan of a photograph from a pre-digital magazine.
He’d been active in a load of charitable organisations, including biggies like Shelter and Christian Aid, and small community projects like one that built a park on wasteland in Stamford Hill.
For the last ten years he’d been running a consultancy in which he advised wannabe charities, NGOs and government agencies on how to deal with social problems the trendy entrepreneurial way. The work for the smaller NGOs was at token mate’s rates, but he was coining it from HMG, who never saw a consultant they didn’t want to overpay.
‘What was he spending it on?’ I asked. ‘Because it wasn’t his flat.’
‘He gave most of it away to charity,’ said Guleed. ‘More than sixty per cent of his gross income.’
‘Fuck me,’ said Seawoll. ‘That sounds like guilt to me.’