As soon as the word came, the gates were opened and in drove two ambulances, hurrying to the scene of horror. Hardened to sickening sights through their experiences sorting out motorway victims, the paramedics went about their grisly work in a quietly efficient manner. Not a single body was intact. However, the occupants of the breakdown truck that had come to remove the wreckage were amazed to discover two injured, but alive members of the forensic team, huddled together in a recess of the vehicle, shuddering in shock in their unconsciousness.
On the perimeter, the two detectives had been assessed and treated on the spot before being whisked away to hospital in a low-slung vehicle. The elder one, Graham, seemed to be suffering only from concussion and a few scratches and bruises whilst the other was badly lacerated along the front of his body where the razor-wire had sliced deeply into him from the weight of his companion. Whilst Graham would be released from hospital within a couple of hours, after undergoing a thorough examination, Clive would remain there for another two weeks and would not return to duty for a further month.
The conversation in the vestry finally came around to the hidden room, a conversation from which, strangely, Sallie allowed herself to be excluded. She rose to follow the priest and the Jesuit as they made their way into a conservatory that backed onto a wall of the ancient church. In here, the priest, smiling knowingly, gripped a protruding stone and pulled. Amazingly, a section of the wall moved silently and smoothly inwards; the mechanism, untouched since its installation, working as easily as any modern day appliance. The door slid back into place once the last person stepped in.
The room beyond revealed an area of around twenty five feet square, lit by a narrow window of thickened glass, measuring about six feet by one. Along the walls were several oil lamps placed in the original torch holders and being the only concession to modernisation. There was no mistaking the intent of the room — it was clearly designed for torture.
Dotted around the walls were several sets of shackles around which dark stains and splatter marks could be seen. These would be the entrenched marks of blood carried down the centuries.
In one corner, stood a mediaeval brazier with the various iron implements still stored in it and, next to that, a small, thick wooden table was secured into the brickwork. It resembled a smaller version of a butcher’s table and on it lay several iron items, designed no doubt, to inflict agony on the unfortunates brought here.
The focus of attention was two other wooden tables that took up the centre of the room, standing side by side. They resembled, even more, butcher’s tables except that they were adorned with straps and shackles. The telltale stains were again in evidence.
For several minutes Ignatious stood silent as the ghosts of the place came to him, soaking into his body, invading his mind. He could plainly hear the screeching and pleading of the victims as they sought relief from the expertly delivered pain.
Breaking from his trance-like state, he turned his gaze upon Sallie. She looked at him in alarm for a brief moment and then her face relaxed and she smiled — a smile of undisguised lasciviousness. Yes, my God! Yes! I am yours. You desire me now! I want you — take me!
She began to peel off her blouse, the eyes, dark and clouded, looking into her Saviour’s. Next came the skirt, and then the shoes, kicked off in wild abandonment, and the stockings she chose in preference to the sexless tights, followed by the bra. She stood, attired only in her flimsy panties, her firm breast standing firm and proud, as the men gawped at her, even the Jesuit being gripped by the beauty.
The ghosts of the ancients shrieked into the room as Sallie, without spoken command, climbed onto one of the tables and lay on her back, arms and legs outstretched, the smile still playing on her lips.
Ignatious turned his attention to the transfixed priest, boring into his mind. “Yes, Father,” he said quietly. “I can read into your thoughts and into all the thoughts you have ever had.”
Father McCahill heard yet did not. He was staring at the near-naked woman on the table with his mind held by the invading forces.
“Secure her to the table, Father. Use the straps at the edge of the table to fasten her left arm.”
The priest moved forward and carried out the Jesuit’s bidding. The spirits screeched ever louder. Sallie was fully compliant, even making it easier for the fumbling man to do a proper job by moving her arms and legs into the various positions. At the end, she was firmly strapped with arms and legs apart but able to move her head.
“Now,” said Ignatious, his voice calm as usual. “Touch her Father. You want to, don’t you? She’s not too old for you is she, Father? I know you like them quite a bit younger.”
As Ignatious spoke, the priest began to run his hands over the imprisoned woman; tenderly at first and then more vigorously, kneading the firm flesh, squeezing at the exposed breasts. The thing he wanted most in the world at that time was to get onto the woman, get inside her. His lust was a raging inferno.
“No, Father,” the quiet voice again. “You cannot have intercourse with her. To touch is sufficient. Better than your dreams, Father; your fantasies as you lie in bed. This is the real thing. Enjoy it while you can.”
He watched as the inflamed priest extracted his lustful pleasure from Sallie, touching wherever he could, his desire reaching fever point. He turned to the Jesuit, with eyes pleading to be allowed to complete the act.
The stare that returned was cold and hard. “You are a disgraceful sinner, Father McCahill. Your memory has told me that this is your third parish and that you have been moved due to your activities with those whom you are sworn to protect. Age and marital status have meant nothing to you, have they? You have preyed on those unfortunate beings and satisfied your evil urges.”
Father McCahill turned away from the still smiling Sallie, and dropped to his knees in front of Brother Saviour. Holding his arms upwards, his hands clasped, he begged for forgiveness. Ignatious, however, was not in a forgiving mood and castigated him further until the wretch was in a blubbering heap face-down on the cold, stone floor.
“Get up now,” commanded Ignatious. “I want you to go into your garden and pick me some flowers.” Ridiculous though this sounded at a time like this, the priest raised himself to his feet and listened as Ignatious detailed the varieties he required. “Bring them to me together with a bowl of boiled water. Go now. Hurry!” he said.
Father McCahill rushed to the door, pulled at a small stone set in the wall near to the doorway and hurried through as soon as enough space was cleared. The door closed to on his exit.
Turning to the prostrate woman, Ignatious said: “Sallie. I want you to do something for me.”
The lascivious smile returned as she looked toward him. “Yes. Anything.” Now is the time. Now he will come to me!
“I want you to phone a mutual acquaintance. Will you do that?”
“Yes. Yes.” Hurry, my God. I need you.”
Reaching inside Sallie’s handbag, he found the mobile and turned it on.
“What is your ID, Sallie?” She offered it up immediately. “6742” Ignatious punched in the code and waited for a line.
“Tell me the home number of Detective Inspector Sampler,” he said then. Again, the number was offered without delay. On hearing the dialling tone, he put the phone next to Sallie’s ear. “Get Mrs. Sampler here, urgently,” he commanded in his quiet voice.
Bethany’s voice came through clearly so that Ignatious was able to hear but not quite make out the words said. “Hello. Beth Sampler speaking.”
“Oh, hello, Bethany,” opened Sallie, as though speaking to a life-long friend. At the other end of the line, Bethany froze, recognising whom this was. “Graham is on his way here and he wants you to meet up with him. Now. It’s very important.”