‘Phoenix.’ Musca beckons him away from the sacrifice.
Gideon leaves Caitlyn on her bunk, lying on her side, her eyes glued to the hooded and robed figure filling the door frame.
Musca is wearing white cotton gloves and holding another pair. ‘Put these on.’
‘Why?’
The big butcher looks at him as though he’s stupid. ‘Fingerprints. We don’t want any prints on what I’m about to give you.’ He leans closer. ‘We will come for her in an hour. You need to tell her. So she has this final time for herself. For her to prepare for her death.’
It’s more than just a ritual to Musca, Gideon can tell. It’s sadism. The thrill of watching someone suffer. The man is enjoying it.
The big butcher steps outside the cell and takes a sheaf of plain A4 paper and a cheap pen from one of the Lookers. ‘Give her this. Tell her she’s allowed to write a final letter to anyone she likes. You can assure her they’ll get it.’
‘And will they?’
‘Providing she doesn’t do anything stupid like try to describe any of us or where she is, then yes, they will.’
‘I understand. Anything else?’
‘No. Sixty minutes, that’s all she has. Not a minute longer. Make sure she’s ready.’
The cell door clanks closed.
Caitlyn is sat up, anxiously watching him as he returns.
He hands the pen and paper to her. ‘They have given you this. To leave a message.’
‘For my parents?’
He can see that she’s got the wrong idea. ‘It’s not for ransom. I told you, there isn’t going to be any ransom demand. These people have no plans to release you.’ He sits alongside her and tries to help her through. ‘This is it. They are getting ready to start the ritual. You have an hour, that’s all. Then it will begin.’
162
Caitlyn writes two letters. One to her mother, one to her father. She wishes it could be just one. But it can’t. This is the way that she has to do it. Her parents’ divorce is screwing up her death almost as much as it did her life.
Words don’t come easy. At first, they don’t even come at all. Longhand is an alien lifeform to her. And letters like this, well, nothing prepares you for drafting letters like this. They should be the sole preserve of old people or people with awful diseases.
In the end she just writes down what she’s thinking.
Thank you for bringing me into this world, for giving me your beauty and your love of fun. Momma, I’m sorry we argued so much about Daddy and François. Love whoever you want to love. Love them both if they’ll let you! I wish we’d had a chance to kiss and make up.
Be happy Mom.
Love Caitlyn xxx
Her note to her father is touchingly different.
I’m sorry, Daddy. I know I should have done what you said. Please don’t blame Eric. I tricked him, that’s all. I love you Daddy and will miss you. If there is a heaven, I’ll have coffee and pie waiting for you, thick cappuccino like we had in Italy together and a Mississippi mud like the one we made a mess of in the Hard Rock in London. Big kisses from your little girl, I’ll always love you, Daddy xxx
Gideon doesn’t look at the letters when she’s finished. He just takes them off her and folds them in three. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Not really.’
She looks drained. Like the life has already gone from her.
She pours herself some water.
‘Damn it!’ She hurls the pot to the floor and starts to sob. ‘I don’t want to die. Oh, please God, don’t let them do this to me!’
163
The security firm’s number goes straight to answerphone. A recorded message. No one available until tomorrow.
‘Have you got the owner’s home number?’ asks Megan.
‘Yeah, John Doran-Smith. I’ve got a mobile.’ Jimmy thumbs through his notebook again and punches in the digits.
No answer.
Jimmy leaves a message, makes it sound serious, official police business, the man has to call him urgently.
Something’s happening. Megan knows now. She switches her thoughts back to Lee Johns. What is he not telling them? There are three main reasons why people like him start becoming helpful to the police. They’re afraid of going to prison. They need money for something, probably drugs. Or they’re into something they simply don’t know how to get out of it.
She turns to Jimmy. ‘Did Johns ask you for any money?’
‘Not a penny.’
‘He talked to you solely because his mate Grabb disappeared?’
‘Right.’
‘We should sack ourselves.’ Her face colours. ‘How could I be so stupid? He must have been with Grabb when they murdered Timberland and took Lock.’
Jimmy quickly dials Lee Johns’ mobile number. They should never have let him go, she knows that now. Half her mind was still on Sammy at the time.
‘No answer, boss.’ Jimmy holds up the phone as though to prove the point.
‘You know where he lives?’
The DS doesn’t need any bigger hint. He starts up the car.
‘Pray he’s there, Jimmy.’
164
The visit of the Master to the henge is unexpected.
Trusted members of the Inner Circle speed up the positioning of the black sheeting. The site is completely cleared. Only when veteran Lookers are in position outside the makeshift privacy curtain does the Master pass through the passageway under the road to the sacred site.
The day is finishing in cloud, the sun sinking mournfully low in the west. Time is of the essence. He walks the edge of the field. As always, he will enter the linked arms of the giant sarsens on a sun-line from the Heel Stone to Altar Stone. He stops at the horseshoe of five great trilithons and kneels.
‘Sacred rulers of our universe, I supplicate myself before you, seeking your guidance and wisdom. I do so in all my mortal frailty and loyalty. I dedicated myself to the ritual of renewal and have ensured all preparations to honour you are in place. The one you chose is ready. A small repayment of the vast debts we owe you.’
He glances up, sees a further ominous dimming of the daylight. An unexpected storm may be brewing. A force of nature augmented by the Sacreds.
‘Lords, our enemies are gathering. They close on us just as clouds surround the sun and moon. I know this to be a trial, a test of our faith and our resolution as Followers, but I cannot undertake it without your guidance. Without your consent.’
He feels his arms growing heavy. They drop by his side as though exhausted from holding a great burden. There is no need to talk now. The Sacreds know everything.
They are in his mind. In his doubts. They race through every atom of his existence. When they are done they leave him prostrate and gasping for air. But the Master has his answer.
He knows what he must do.
165
Kylie Lock slams the phone down on her husband.
The cheapskate son of a bitch still won’t agree to match the money. Okay, she gets that publicly he can’t do it. Vice Presidents don’t negotiate with terrorists, that she understands. But he could still put his hand in his damned pocket. Do it privately. She could tell the police and the press she raised the extra bucks herself.
But he won’t even do that. Can’t compromise his precious principles. Oh no, that would bring his integrity into question. Would cost him votes is what he means. Thom ‘Iron Man’ Lock can’t be seen to parley with the bad guys. Not even for his family. Certainly not in election year.
She stomps around her suite at the Dorchester. Rage building. Can’t even take it out on Charlene. The press aide has gone sick with food poisoning. On this day of all days. Kylie goes to the minibar, looks at the vodka. God she needs it. But she won’t. She takes a bar of chocolate instead. Sits chewing on the bed, watching TV and listening to the radio at the same time. She needs some valium. Or amphetamine. She snatches up the TV remote, switches to Sky News. Praying for another fix of news about her baby.