He shrugs. ‘It’s hard to explain. I guess I thought I could track him down before you did.’
‘Why would you want to do that?’
‘To ask him about my father. Find out what he’d been involved in. What it had all meant to him.’
She senses there’s more to it than just a need for personal retribution. ‘What do you mean, “what it had all meant to him”?’
Gideon freezes. He wants to tell her, have her help him make sense of things but he also doesn’t want to seem crazy. ‘My father kept diaries all of his life. Every year since he was eighteen.’
Megan doesn’t remember any reports mentioning diaries found at the house. ‘So?’
‘I think they could be important.’ He studies her, looking for a reaction. ‘Do you know anything about the stones and the Followers of the Sacreds?’
‘What stones?’
‘Stonehenge.’
She laughs. ‘Listen. I’m having a very bad day and I can’t work out riddles. What is it? What are you talking about?’
‘My father was a member of a secret organisation. It was …’ he corrects himself, ‘… it is called “the Followers of the Sacreds”.’
The DI gives him a cynical look. ‘So what? Your father had a secret club. He wouldn’t be the first. The police service is full of Freemasons and the like. I’m sorry, I really have got to go.’
‘It wasn’t like Freemasonry,’ Gideon snaps. ‘This group is dangerous. They’re involved in all kinds of things, rituals, maybe sacrifices.’
Megan scans him. He’s clearly exhausted. Depressed. Possibly even post-traumatically stressed. ‘Gideon, have you had any decent sleep recently?’
He shakes his head. ‘Not much.’
Now it all makes sense to her. His father’s death and the burglary and attack on him must be taking their toll. ‘Maybe it could be a good idea to see a doctor? They can give you something to help you rest. Get you through things for a few weeks.’
‘I don’t need drugs or advice, inspector. I need you to take me seriously. My father killed himself because of this group, the Followers of the Sacreds. I don’t know exactly why. But I think it all has something to do with me.’
She looks from her car to the front door of the station. Only one will take her home to her daughter.
‘This has to wait until tomorrow,’ she says. She holds up his phone. ‘I am keeping this until I can make a copy of the photograph that you showed me. I’ll give it back when I see you.’
Gideon nods disappointedly. ‘Please come to the house. I’ll show you the diaries. Then you’ll see things differently.’
Megan hesitates, her own personal safety is always at the back of her mind and Chase is showing signs of becoming unstable. ‘My DS and I can come around at ten in the morning. Is that all right?’
‘Ten is fine.’
They say goodnight and she walks to her car looking down at the mobile that he gave her and the face of the blond-haired man with a fistful of fire.
PART THREE
84
High on the hillsides surrounding the stones, Lookers watch the revellers gather like ants around the giant sarsens. The pilgrims hold hands, forming their own human circle against the Megalithic landscape. Throughout the dark hours of the night the men of the Craft have watched them come.
Thousands of strangers. People of multiple nationalities, ages and beliefs. Pagans, druids, Wiccans, heathens, Christians, Catholics and Jews. Some of them to worship. Others just to witness the spectacle. They have come. Just as they always do.
Out in the darkness, in the undulating Wiltshire fields, there are illegal camps and the crackle of small bonfires, lit as in ancient times to mark the passing of the solstice. The site itself has been flooded with a wave of pagan colour since access to the stones was opened in the night.
The mystique, the ancient customs and practice of the solstice come up against the machine of modern organisation. Crowd control, hygiene, traffic routing. And devotion to one of the oldest gods. Money. Even the samba bands are selling CDs of their own works, with souvenirs as plentiful as drugs and booze.
They have journeyed from across the world for this day and as they near the henge, they become aware that the intense police activity is not only for them. Word travels about the missing American girl and her dead lover and many kneel and pray out of respect and hope.
The drumming that has gone on all night picks up a heavier, more urgent rhythm. The air buzzes with excitement. White-robed druids rehearse their prayers. Bare-chested pagan men dance with pensioners in anoraks and hippy women with beads and flowers in their hair.
Primitive horns start to sound, the orchestra of the old infiltrated by new immigrant vuvuzelas. Waves of cheering, clapping and chanting ripple across the pond of people. Innocent eyes, some glazed with drugs, others bright with virgin anticipation, are now all trained on the pink sky, waiting for the magic, straining for the first flash of sunlight to pierce the most famous stone circle in the world.
The sun breaks and penetrates the ringed sarsens. A giant cheer erupts.
Aside from the Lookers, there are no Followers anywhere near the henge. They know better. Instead, they are gathered miles away in the Sanctuary. They kneel on the cold stone of the Great Room. The place where their gods are located.
85
When Gideon wakes he squints at his watch and knows instantly that he’d been right going back to the police. It’s nearly ten in the morning of the longest day of the year and he’s just had his first real sleep for almost a week. A weight has been lifted from his shoulders.
He showers, shaves and hurries downstairs. The security buzzer sounds just as he’s filling the kettle. He presses the electromagnetic release and on the monitor watches Megan’s car glide through the grand iron gates and up the gravelled driveway.
He opens the front door. ‘Good morning,’ he says brightly.
‘Morning,’ replies Megan, less enthusiastically. ‘This is Detective Sergeant Dockery.’
The DS smiles from beneath his sunglasses and offers his hand.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ says Gideon shaking it vigorously. ‘Come through to the back.’
The two officers trail him into the kitchen and settle around a rectangular pine table while he makes hot drinks and small talk. ‘I guess you’re busy with the solstice?’
‘Very,’ says Megan. ‘The roads are crazy. I should do what my ex does, stay away from work at this time of the year. Drives me mad.’
‘It alternates,’ says Jimmy. ‘One year the mob is well behaved and the next they let rip like wild animals.’
Gideon sorts out teas and coffees, milk and sugar and then joins them at the table. Megan sees this as her cue to gear-change the conversation. ‘Last night you spoke about your father’s diaries and implied that they might shed some light on his death. Can we see them?’
He puts his cup down and stands. ‘Yes, yes you can. But you need to know something.’
‘What?’
He walks to the foot of the stairs. ‘They’re not easy to follow. Wait, it’s best I show you what I mean.’
He goes to the hidden room and selects one of the volumes that he has decoded. He returns slightly breathless and hands the diary to Megan.
‘What is this language?’ She holds the book at arm’s length, as though it might somehow help.
‘Code,’ he explains. ‘My father wrote all the diaries in code. He devised it when I was a kid, as a way to teach me Greek.’