‘What about the girl?’
He nods. ‘You stay here with him. I’ll take her into the Sanctuary.’
Lacerta is not happy. Even in this remote location, far from any road or house, he doesn’t want to be left alone with a dead body. ‘Hurry up.’
Serpens runs to the Warrior. The girl is red-faced and struggling in the back of the cab. At least she’s alive.
Caitlyn sees the panic on his face. The fear is contagious. It makes her kick and thrash against the bonds.
Serpens considers taking the duct tape from around her mouth and trying to calm her down but decides against it. Best get her inside as quickly as possible. Get her locked up. Call Draco and tell him about the awful mess they’re in.
50
Yesterday’s personal discovery gave Gideon a restless night.
CLL.
It stands for chronic lymphocytic leukaemia and is a dreadful disease that occurs when the DNA of the lymphocyte cell mutates. As years pass, damaged cells multiply and the mutant army kills off normal cells in the lymph nodes and bone marrow. Blood-forming cells are eventually overwhelmed and the body’s immune system surrenders — it no longer has the ability to fight off infection.
It is how his mother died.
He knows all this because he spent all night reading about it online. He also found out that the disease is hereditary. But not always. CLL inheritance is a game of medical roulette. Maybe he has it, maybe he hasn’t. Only time will tell.
Deep in his memory something stirs. Rises from the sands of forgotten nightmares. He wasn’t a healthy child — he was plagued by colds and hay fever, coughs and dizzy spells. One time he fell really sick. A raging fever and heavy sweats. It was so bad his father took him out of school. Had him hospitalised and seen by specialists. There were machines and monitors, needles in his arms, stern faces and long adult conversations just out of earshot. Then they let him go home. His father had red eyes, like he’d been crying.
And he remembers something else. For a second, he has to stop himself. Needs to make sure his mind isn’t playing tricks. The diaries have churned him up, left him exhausted and emotional. He could be suffering from false memory syndrome, implanting things into the past that hadn’t happened.
But he doesn’t think so.
His father made him lie down in the cold metal bath in their old house. He remembers it distinctly because he was embarrassed. He was naked and the bath was empty. Then Nathaniel poured cold grey water all over him. Doused him from head to toe, told him to splash it over his face and in his hair. Urged him not to waste a drop.
He was shaking from cold and fear when he got out. His father wrapped him in a towel and held him tight, told him not to worry, said the water was special and would take the sickness away. And it had. Almost instantly. He went back to school days later and felt perfectly well.
Another piece of his childhood jigsaw falls into place. He’s never been ill since that day. Not even a sniffle. Whenever he has cut himself, it has healed quickly.
Gideon walks to his father’s old bedroom and looks in the mirror on the dressing table. The injuries he sustained in the fight with the intruder downstairs have gone. He puts a hand to his face. The skin is unblemished. There’s no trace of the split lip or cut cheek. It’s like it never happened.
51
Black carrion crows settle on the jagged ridge of an old barn that has seen little care in the last twenty years. Draco points at the avian army as he walks through the long grass with Musca.
He bangs on the dark twisted wood of the barn door and the birds scatter skyward, then swoop and settle into treetops edging the vast field.
From inside there comes the noise of urgency. Metal against metal. Things being moved. Serpens has already seen them through cracks in the barn boards and opens up. He looks embarrassed. ‘Sorry about all this.’
Draco says nothing. He is sorry too. Sorry about the screw-up. Sorry he has to come and sort out the mess. The two men slide past Serpens. He locks the door again. Rolls a broken scarifier back behind it, positions the long metal arm that connects to a tractor so it jams against one of the door beams. ‘Thanks for coming.’
Draco looks quickly around. ‘Are we are alone?’
Serpens nods. ‘I have sent Lacerta home.’
‘Good,’ says Musca. ‘At least you’ve done one thing properly.’
Draco gets straight to the point. ‘Where is the body?’
Sean points across the barn at the Campervan. ‘He’s in there.’
‘And the woman?’
‘Safe at the Sanctuary. In one of the meditation rooms.’ It is a euphemism. They are merely spaces chiselled in the thick stone walls, no bigger than a broom cupboard. The supplicant can’t kneel, let alone sit or lay down. Air dribbles through letterbox-sized slits by the feet and head. ‘Did she say anything?’
‘Nothing you could make any sense of. Just screamed.’
Musca smiles. ‘She’ll stop after an hour or two.’
Serpens slides open the Camper door and they climb in. Draco leans over the corpse. ‘Have you searched him?’
Serpens shakes his head. Musca opens up the glovebox and pulls out hire documents, a driving licence and a bag of something. He holds it up to the windscreen. ‘Ecstasy. A nice little stash.’ He drops it on the driver’s seat. ‘There’s a name here.’ He flicks through the agreement. ‘Edward Jacob Timberland, address New Cavendish Street, Marylebone.’ He picks up the driving licence and looks at the photograph. ‘Yep, that’s our guy. Thirty-one years old.’ He flips it over. ‘And six points to his name.’
‘He won’t be worrying about those any more,’ says Draco. He takes a deep breath. ‘So he and his girlfriend hire the VW for a hippy trip to Stonehenge. That means they won’t be missed for a day or two.’ He gives them a smile. ‘Not as bad as you thought. The Sacreds picked the perfect sacrifices, free souls who can take time off and play at being children of the sixties.’
Serpens looks relieved. ‘So what do you want me to do with him?’
‘Nothing. We’ll keep the van here until after the ceremony and then we’ll dispose of the bodies together. Go get yourself a decent breakfast. And relax. You can leave the girl to us now.’
52
DCI Jude Tompkins stomps into the CID office with a face like thunder. ‘Baker, Dockery, conference room, five minutes. Don’t be late.’
She’s gone as quickly as she appeared. Jimmy looks across desks to Megan. ‘What’s all that about? I have to see an informant in ten minutes.’
‘I think this is more important, Jim. You’d better ring your man and stand him down.’
‘Shit.’ He rips the desk phone from its cradle and punches in a number.
Megan calmly finishes reviewing the document she was working on, saves it and locks her computer. She grabs a plastic cup of water from a dispenser in the pantry and wanders down the corridor to the meeting room.
It’s crowded. Full of bigwigs. She tries to put ranks and names to faces. There are five or six sergeants, at least three inspectors, two DCIs, the Detective Chief Super, John Rowlands, and there at the top of the table is Jimmy’s old man, the Deputy Chief Constable, Greg Dockery. He’s flanked by two smartly dressed civilians she doesn’t recognise.
‘What’s the score?’ asks Charlie Lanning, a uniform inspector, taking a seat next to her. ‘Something to do with the solstice? Bloody hedgerows are already full of dopeheads. It’s going to be worse than ever.’
‘Your guess is as good as mine.’ Megan gestures to the end of the conference table. ‘The suits look too serious for solstice ops. Too official. Could be a Home Office review. Or maybe more cutbacks.’