If Gristhorpe had expected inverted crosses, black candles, pentagrams and ceremonial robes, he couldn’t have been more mistaken. Melville Westman’s Helmthorpe cottage was as ordinary as could be: teal wallpaper with white curlicue patterns, beige three-piece suite, television, music centre. Sunlight poured through the windows past the white lace curtains and gave the place a bright, airy feel. The only clues to Westman’s interests were to be found in the bookcase: Eliphas Levi’s Le Dogme et le Rituel de la Haute Magic, Mathers’s translation of The Key of Solomon, Crowley’s Magick in Theory and Practice, Malleus Maleficarum and a few other books on astrology, Cabbala, the tarot, witchcraft and ritual magic. In addition, a sampler over the fireplace bore the motto, “Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law,” in the same kind of embroidery one would expect to find such ancient saws as, “A house is built of bricks; a home is built on love.”
Similarly, if Gristhorpe had expected a bedraggled, wild-eyed Charles Manson look-alike, he would have been disappointed. Westman was a dapper, middle-aged man with sparse mousy hair, dressed in a grey V-neck pullover over a white shirt, wearing equally grey pants with sharp creases. He was a short, portly man, but he had presence. It was partly in the slightly flared nostrils that gave his face a constant expression of arrogant sneering, and partly in the controlled intensity of his cold eyes.
“It took you long enough,” he said to Gristhorpe, gesturing towards an armchair.
Gristhorpe sat down. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, come on, Superintendent! Let’s not play games. The girl, the missing girl. I read about it in the paper.”
“What’s that got to do with you?”
Westman sat opposite Gristhorpe and leaned forward in his chair, linking his hands on his lap. “Nothing, of course. But you have to ask, don’t you?”
“And?”
Westman smiled and shook his head slowly. “And nothing.”
“Mr Westman,” Gristhorpe said. “In cases like this we have to consider every possibility. If you know anything about the child’s disappearance, it’d be best if you told me.”
“I told you. I know nothing. Why should I?”
“We both know about your involvement in witchcraft and Satanism. Don’t be naïve.”
“Involvement? Witchcraft? Satanism? Superintendent, just because I practise a different religion from you, don’t assume I’m some kind of monster. I’m not a Satanist, and I’m not a witch, either. Most people you would call witches are silly dabblers who appropriate the old ways and practices as an excuse for sexual excess. Ex-hippies and New Agers.”
“Whatever you call yourself,” Gristhorpe said, “there’s a history of people like you being involved in sacrifice.”
“Sacrificial virgins? Really! Again, you’re confusing me with the psychopathic Satanists who use the ancient ways as an excuse. People who read too much Aleister Crowley — he did exaggerate, you know — and found he appealed to their sick fantasies. You find a few bloody pentagrams daubed on a wall and a bit of gibberish in Latin and you think you’re dealing with the real thing. You’re not.”
Gristhorpe pointed towards the bookcase. “I notice you have a few Aleister Crowley books yourself. Does that make you a psychopathic Satanist?”
Westman’s lips curled at the edges like an old sandwich. “Crowley has things to teach to those who understand. Do you know the purpose of magic, Superintendent?”
“Power,” said Gristhorpe.
Westman sniffed. “Typical. It comes from the same root as ‘magi,’ wise man. The purpose of the ‘Great Work’ is to become God, and you dismiss it as mere human hunger for power.”
Gristhorpe sighed and tried to hold onto his temper. The man’s sanctimonious tone was grating on his nerves. “Mr Westman, I don’t really give a damn what illusions you cling to. That’s not the purpose—”
“Illusions! Superintendent, believe me, the work of the magician is far from an illusion. It’s a matter of will, courage, intense study of—”
“I don’t want a lecture, Mr Westman. I know enough about the subject already. I know, for example, that sacrifice is important because you regard living creatures as storehouses of energy. When you kill them, when you spill their blood, you release this energy and concentrate it. I also know it’s as much a matter of blood-lust, of murderous frenzy, as it is of any practical purpose. The incense, incantations, and finally the gushing of blood. It’s orgasmic, a sexual kick.”
Westman waved his hand. “I can see you know nothing, Superintendent. Again, you’re talking about the deviants, the charlatans.”
“And,” Gristhorpe went on, “a human sacrifice is the most effective of all, gives you the biggest kick. Especially the sacrifice of a pure child.”
Westman pursed his lips and put his forefinger to them. He stared at Gristhorpe for a few moments, then shrugged and sat back in the chair. “Human sacrifice is rare in true magic,” he said. “It’s difficult enough for those who practise such arts to simply exist in such a narrow-minded world as the one we inhabit; we are hardly likely to make things worse by kidnapping children and slaughtering them.”
“So you know nothing at all about Gemma Scupham?”
“Only what I read in the newspapers. And though I expected a visit, given my notoriety, as far as I can gather, I bear no resemblance to either of the suspects.”
“True, but that doesn’t mean you’re not associated with them in some way. A lot of people don’t do their own dirty work.”
“Insults, is it now? Well, maybe you’re right. Maybe I prepared a couple of zombies to do the job. Do you remember the Rochdale scandal, Superintendent? Ten children were taken from their parents and put into care by child-workers who believed a few wild tales about ritualistic, satanic abuse. And what happened? They were sent home. There was no evidence. Children have overactive imaginations. If some six-year-old tells you he’s eaten a cat, the odds are it was a chocolate one, or some kind of animal-shaped breakfast cereal.”
“I know about the Rochdale affair,” Gristhorpe said, “and about what happened in Nottingham. It didn’t come out at the trial, but we found out later there was ritual abuse involved. These kids were tortured, starved, humiliated and used as sex objects.”
“But they weren’t sacrificed to the devil, or any such nonsense. All these tales about organized satanic abuse were discredited. Most such abuse takes place in extended families, between family members.”
“That’s not the issue.” Gristhorpe leaned forward. “Gemma Scupham was abducted from her home and we can’t find hide nor hair of her. If she’d been killed and dumped somewhere in the dale, we’d most likely have found her now. We haven’t. What does that imply to you?”
“I don’t know. You’re supposed to be the detective. You tell me.”
“One of two things. Either she’s dead and her body has been very well hidden, perhaps somewhere other than Swainsdale, or someone is keeping her alive somewhere, maybe for a part she’s due to play in some ritual. That’s why I’m here talking to you. And, believe me, I’d rather be elsewhere.”
“I applaud your deductive abilities, Superintendent, but you’d be making better use of your time if you were somewhere else. I know nothing.”
Gristhorpe looked around the room. “What if I were to arrange for a search warrant?”
Westman stood up. “You don’t need to do that. Be my guest.”
Gristhorpe did. It was a small cottage, and it didn’t take him long. Upstairs was a bedroom and an office, where a computer hummed on a messy desk and a printer pushed out sheets of paper.