Church of Sin (The Ether Book 1) (4 page)

Chapter 8

By 7.00 am Ash Fielding had run two and a half miles
from the comfort of his own living room. If he wanted to, he could have monitored his heart rate and blood pressure, designed his own course with inclines and descents and seen a graphical representation of his progress across the electronic terrain, but he had no idea how to do any of these things. An enigmatic array of buttons and dials flashed and beeped in front of him. He imagined this was the sort of control panel US astronauts used on the Apollo missions.

One of the buttons on the display slowed the tread to an eventual stop to allow him to dismount safely. He had no idea which button this was so his morning training exercises were usually brought to an end by jumping off the moving tread and falling into a pile of dirty washing. Sensing the sudden loss of weight, Apollo 19 would then bring the tread to a
n automatic stop. On his dismount today, Ash managed to maintain his balance and, after turning to look at the contraption with a bitter degree of distrust, made his way into the kitchen where he poured himself coffee from a percolator.

After a shower he dressed: plain white shirt, waistcoat, suit trousers, no tie. The colour of the suit was awkward to describe. A sort of soft blue, Italian cut; the sort of thing an older man might wear with a garish handkerchief protruding out of the breast pocket to match the tie. There is a fine line between stylish and complete wardrobe malfunction. Ash’s suit was on the line.

He didn’t shave. He didn’t trust his stubble. He was 35, one of the youngest DIs in the South West, and he didn’t trust his stubble. Beard growth didn’t interest him – beards were the talisman of philosophers, hippies, leprechauns and serial killers. But he had the feeling that, if he wanted to grow a beard, his stubble would let him down and he would end up with facial hair that looked like it was pulled out of a clogged up Dyson.

But aside from his youthful complexion, Ash wasn’t an ugly man. His cheekbones were strong and defined, jutting down from a mop of mousy brown hair that fell across his eyes when he moved his head too quickly and which he frequently had to sweep back to see anything. He was less fit than his morning routine would suggest and much less fit than he would like but the move from DS to DI last year had meant more paperwork and less running around Bristol catching bad guys. Not that he minded much.

After he was ready, he picked up a load of washing of assorted colours and threw them into the machine. He was vaguely aware that clothes came with tags that contained directions for washing which ought to be considered but he took the view that life was too short to spend it trying to decipher small Chinese images of baskets with numbers in them. In any event, he had no idea how to change the temperature on his washing machine. So in they all went. As varied a topography of garments as was ever conceived.

As he threw the clothes in, something fell to the floor. He picked up the small piece of pink paper and opened it. I love you, it said. The word love was replaced with a badly drawn heart. Frowning, he screwed it up and threw it in the bin.

In the freezer he found three sausages which he covered in oil and pan-fried. When they were suitably coated in carbon, he sat down and ate them with bread and grated cheese.

Breakfast was a quiet time. Thinking time. And Ash had a lot to think about.

And the Innsmouth Institute was only part of the story.

Ash
had met Alix Franchot ten years ago and since then she had flittered in and out of his life in much the same way that cigarettes had: an enjoyable distraction while they were around and something that was vaguely missed when they weren’t. She had trained as a psychologist but he wasn’t sure whether or not she’d actually ever practised. They had studied together at Bristol University for a Masters Degree in criminology although for different reasons. Ash had done it because it represented one of the criteria for a fast track through CID. Alix had done it because she was bored and didn’t really know what to do with herself. Ash had applied himself, attended every seminar, absorbed every text, stayed behind and discussed topics with tutors and invested every spare waking hour to his studies. Alix had approached everything half-heartedly and swotted up for exams the week before. He had passed with merit. She had passed with distinction.

Since then they had worked together on a few occasions. Perhaps most notably, two years ago Ash was investigating the disappearance of a young boy of twelve from a house outside the city. The boy’s name was Martin Falson, a name that Ash would never forget. The case had attracted some media attention for the usual reasons. The boy came from a middle class family of professionals – white, of course. The sort of Keeping-Up-With-the-Jones’ folk who people loved to link to scandal and corruption. The parents were quickly demonised as too emotionally detached and a number of family members were in the frame for a kidnap. Baron – the DSI – had led the case. Ash had been DS although his involvement had almost certainly
kick-started his promotion to DI.

The case was complex enough to warrant the involvement of a profiler. Ash had put forward Alix’s name and it took a degree of persuasion for her to be appointed
considering her lack of track record. Fortunately for Ash, she applied herself considerably more diligently than her academic studies; sitting in on interviews, reading reams of evidence, producing psychological breakdowns of each family member. It was through her work that the boy’s uncle had been identified as a potential suspect. He was a complex man of many layers. Professional and above board on the surface, perverted and psychotic underneath.

A nine week operation but little Martin was found, alive, strapped to a table in the Uncle’s basement. He had been systematically abused, starved and, at the end, abandoned
. But in police terms, it had been a result.

More recently
, Ash found himself once again acting as Alix’s ambassador when a job came up with the Major Incident Unit for a profiler. Someone who wasn’t already integrated in the police system. An external. And someone cheap. To say that Ash manipulated the interviews would be being unfair. But he didn’t try particularly hard to find any other candidates with calibre either.

That was last month. Today, Alix started her new job working in Ash’s team. Thus, she had become a permanent fixture in his world.

He looked carefully at his half eaten sausage. They were supposed to be a bit pink in the middle, weren’t they?

He scooped one and a half sausages in the bin and headed for the door. He had a mind to drop by to see Alix before she started. It was a push in at the deep end. A meeting with the CPS about Eugene Anwick. Something big. Something unusual. He should be pleased, excited even, he thought. But he wasn’t. He was nervous as Hell. A sucker for a pretty face, Baron had told him. But he hadn’t fought Alix’s corner so hard because she was pretty. He’d fought her corner because she was the best person for the job. Absolutely. But if it went wrong he would undoubtedly look like a complete pillock.

He’d check in on her before she started. Just to make sure everything was ok. That was all.

Chapter 9

The darkness of the space around her wasn’t the darkness of night. It was a darkness that seeped from invisible cracks in the walls, consuming everything absolutely as it poured down and through the air.

Alix took a step forward, feeling tentatively for solid floor and hearing the satisfying crunch of grit and soil. She was cold, although she did not feel it. The blackness was so oppressive that it was difficult to feel anything at all. She wore a dress that flowed around her like a river through a gauge. Blue satin to match the sparkle in her eyes.

Vaughn sat in his chair like he always did. She could see him perfectly although there was no light source to illuminate him. He rocked gently; the creak of the wood was like the cawing of the morning crows. Occasionally, he inhaled the smoke from his pipe; let it swirl in his mouth before puffing it out and watching it coil around his head before it dissipated into the gloom.

“Hello Father,” she said. H
e looked up. Another deep breath, another cloud of gas rose like the vapour from the river at sunrise.

“Hello Alix.” His words were slow and heavy, crushed by the smoke.

Now she saw doors. Four at first, set opposite to each other at an angle. Then six, eight, and then a ninth facing her square on. Wooden frames stood upright, seemingly unattached to a wall or support. Each door was labelled from one to nine.

She had been here before.

“Nine doors, Alix,” he said. “Nine doors. Nine Great Worlds.”

She swallowed hard, tried to speak, but emitted no sound other than her beating heart. “Nine Great Worlds.” He took another puff and let the smoke disperse before continuing. “Seven of the doors take you back to the beginning, if you can find the way. Behind one door: redemption. Bring back to me the child you lost. Behind another:
a Demon to devour you.”

She hesitated, tried to suppress the urge to cry out. Salty tears stung her eyes, the doors were blurry. He looked at her expectantly, one hand gently caressing the beard which was cut so finely to a pointed tip underneath his chin. His hair was streaked with silver, swept back
, cascading down his back. He was and always had been a terrifying man. This was not the dishevelled and broken man Alix visited in the home. It was the man of her childhood; an echo from the past.

From nowhere, a breeze whipped up around her ankles and the dress momentarily billowed and flapped; the river raging to the precipice before the fall to the lagoon below.

“Why must I choose?” she asked. Then, when he did not answer her, “I don’t understand any of this.”

He looked at her and there was the disappointment in his eyes she had seen so many times before. Whatever she did, she could never live up to his expectations.

“You wish it was me, don’t you,” she challenged him, the resentment and the bitterness tumbling out of her like rats from a burning ship. “You wish Zara was here and I had been taken.”

He looked up at her sharply, turned his head slowly to one side so that is drooped slightly before he spoke, appearing to hang as if half severed by an invisible blade.

“Like Eve, spawned was Sin of sacred flesh. Like Eve, thine equal was conceived. But thou art a fool brother; an ephemeral thing, this hollow prison and time be the servant of that which broods for thine own. Soon I will awaken from ancient slumber and I will rejoice in the fire that follows me.”

When she spoke again – the words she used as irrelevant as the tone with which they were uttered – he sat motionless in his chair staring into empty space. Behind him, the doors called to her. Wooden Sirens beckoning her to an unknown fate. She stepped forward, reached for the handle and then awoke in the cold embrace of sweat and fear.

Chapter 10

Alix awoke to the sound of an alarm persisting in her ear. She had tried flinging her hand vaguely in the direction of the noise, but she had deliberately placed the clock out of her reach. After a while her tolerance expired and she hauled herself out of bed and hit the alarm to turn it off before staggering to the bathroom.

Her body rebelled at the sudden movement which reminded her of the expired gym membership that she’d found in her purse the other day. As she got up, memories of the dream circled around her head before falling out of her grasp. What remained was an imprint of something familiar, but something that had no form or shape. It was like recalling a certain taste but not being able to place what the taste was associated with.

She slipped on a dressing gown and surveyed the chaos of her bedroom. Unpacked boxes piled on top of each other, containing mainly clothes. Piles of books in the corner ready to be put away, copies of old and new texts including an original copy of
The Man of Genius
. A half assembled exercise bike stood in the corner, the handle bars were used as a makeshift clothes horse. She had moved into the flat about two weeks ago but hadn’t yet found the time, or the desire, to sort everything out properly and, if she was honest, she didn’t mind living out of cardboard boxes for a few weeks.

After a shower, she looked in the mirror, inspected her white skin, the freckles on her cheeks. She had a perfectly heart shaped face, petite features; a face that was somewhere between
elfin and impish. Her hair was auburn, cut short around the neck. A clump of it stuck up on end from where she had slept on it. There were bags under her eyes. It was two in the morning by the time she had fallen asleep, the events of yesterday replaying over and over again in her mind like a broken record had kept her awake. Living alone didn’t bother her, she had lived alone since she was fifteen, but lack of sleep did and she looked as bad as she felt.

But
the bags didn’t detract from the vast depth of her blue, blue eyes.

A frustrated part of her realised that, bearing in mind she was due to expose Gavin for the fraudulent piece of shit he was and attend her first staff meeting on the same morning, she might need a touch of moisturiser to revive her tired skin. She had no foundation but there was hand cream. She dabbed a bit on her face and rubbed it in. Presumably the effect would basically be the same.

She finished in the bathroom and opened her wardrobe. It was sparsely occupied. A lot of space there in the unlikely event that she went on a shopping spree at least. Boxes of shoes did not cascade down on her; piles of handbags did not spill out on the floor. She had more books than clothes.

Tucked at the side was a light grey suit, nothing designer but comfortable and nice deep inside pockets to store things.
This morning, some form of effort was required. She’d wear jeans tomorrow. She threw on the skirt and a white shirt and hung the jacket on the back of a chair. She peered into the endless abyss that represented her makeup bag. Some congealed mascara, nail polish remover (which she used to clean the hob) and three shades of lipstick, still in their wrappers. The whole process took less than fifteen minutes.

She should visit her father, she thought. Tell him about her new job. Not that the old git would give a hoot.

Her kitchen and living room were open plan. Modern units, gleaming white appliances, shiny granite work tops, lime green bar stools set around a breakfast bar just before the grey slate tiles ended and the beige carpet began leading to small living area centred around a large flat screen TV clinging to the wall. More boxes of stuff cluttered the edge of the room. An unpacked toaster, pots and pans, Ikea mugs, DVDs and boxes and boxes of music.

She needed more work clothes. One suit wasn’t great for her first real job. Getting her first real job at the age of 31 wasn’t great either. She knew that but did it really matter? Her mother was dead, her sister was still missing and her father would have been disappointed even she’d invented the cure for cancer, solved the problem of third world debt and invented a time machine on the same day. So did it really matter?

It wasn’t even as if money was an issue. When her mother died, she had inherited enough to keep her going for another decade before she had to work full time. Plus royalties from the book, the odd freelance job and the work Ash had thrown at her during the years all added up. She hadn’t taken the job for money. She’d taken it to try and fill a gap in her life. A gaping hole that widened every day. This was what she needed, she told herself. Something to latch on to, something to give her purpose. And her visit to the forgotten Innsmouth Institution had revitalised her.

She was thankful to Ash, of course. Perhaps she’d buy him lunch this week or get him a bottle of something. He looked like a red wine drinker. She’d get him some red wine. She had the feeling t
hat he was the real reason she had gotten the job in the first place. He was sweet enough, and a good listener sometimes. And she’d never felt judged by him. He’d never labelled her as the girl who’d lost her sister. He’d never really ever asked about it at all in fact. Strange that, in many ways.

“Nothing between you and that dishy DI, then?” her best friend had asked her when they’d talked about her new job and Alix had told her about her plans to ditch Gavin.

“No,” she’d replied. “Too much I don’t get and I think he still reads Marvel comics when he’s not at work.”

The doorbell rang, she span round and for a split second she thought she saw Zara but it was a red coat hanging on the back of the door. She clicked the latch.

“Hi.”

She was greeted with the familiar childish grin spread across an unshaven face beneath that unruly hair that fell in front of a pair of dark emerald green eyes.

“Ash!” She failed miserably to hide the mixture of surprise and annoyance at being caught off-guard.

“Sorry, are you ready? I shouldn’t have just... you know...” He shuffled his feet uncomfortably. “I can come back later if-”

“No, no,” she said apologetically, ushering him in. “No, come in.” He stepped forward and there was an awkward moment as he offered his hand and she leant forward to air kiss him (it was all the rage on the continent) and they ended up caught in a slightly embarrassing quasi-embrace.

“Sorry,” he said. She made a strange noise that was intended to be a laugh to clear the air but came out more like a puppy being run over.

“Got time for a coffee? Meeting’s not for a few hours.”

“Sure.”

“White and one?” She fished out a mug from a box and tipped it up to let out the dust. She flicked the kettle on and busied herself moving things around her kitchen units unnecessarily. Detective Inspector Asher Fielding perched himself on a lime green bar stool and glanced across at the flowers on the window sill.

“Black and none,” he replied. She close
d her eyes and cursed under her breath. She should have known that.

“Nice place,” he commented, looking around. “From what I can see of it behind all the boxes anyway.”

“Moved two weeks ago. Not got round to unpacking.”

“If you open the kettle lid and let it cool first the coffee won’t taste-”

“Oops, sorry.”

“...burnt.”

She stirred the mug and handed it to him. She had a sheepish grin on her face which, try as she might, she couldn’t seem to shift.

There was a short silence while they both tried to think of something to say.

“Thanks for-” Alix stopped, not really sure what she was thanking him for. The job? He hadn’t offered it to her. Baron had. Possibly manipulating everything behind the scenes because he had a rather obvious crush on her? Difficult to put into words.

“I had nothing to do with it,” he said to her relief. “You obviously impressed the DSI in interview.”

“He’s pretty scary.”

Ash raised an eyebrow. “You’ll enjoy working with him.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

Ash nodded.
He stole another glance at the flowers. She got up and went to the fridge, from where she took a can of Dr Pepper. When she had turned her back, he took a quick look at the tag on the flowers.

To Alix, thank you for all your help. I can move on now. Jenna x

Odd, he thought.

“So,” he said, “this book of yours...”

“Oh, don’t go on about it, it’s not that great, really. I knocked it out in less than three months.”

“You’re too modest, doctor Franchot. Actually, I found
Inside the Criminal Mind
a fascinating read.”

“You’ve
not
read it.” She could feel the blood rush to her face. For some reason, the thought that Ash might have actually read her book, or worse –
critically
read it – terrified her. Not that she was intimidated by him. They were very similar in many ways. Both prodigies, hopes for the future, big things ahead. It was just that he’d got on with it quicker than she had. That’s why now, technically, he was her boss.

“I
have
read it. Every page. I particularly liked the entry regarding our friend Professor Lombroso.” He smiled: a broad smile that is only ever seen on the faces of those who are genuinely impressed. Cesare Lombroso had been their long running, private joke. What would Lombroso do? They had asked each other before. A nineteenth century Italian criminologist, Lombroso pioneered a radical theory that criminality was an inherited trait identifiable from certain physical features. Criminals, he said, were subhuman and therefore
looked
subhuman, with features similar to apes: big ears, sloping forehead, long arms, that sort of thing. Generally, his theory was regarded with a great deal of scepticism even at the time and, if correct, would mean that a number of leading and high profile individuals have criminal tendencies, including the Prince of Wales.

“Will you sign a copy for me?”

“Now you’re taking the piss. Anyway, yesterday changed my entire perception of the country we live in and you want to talk about a book.”

“Ah, yes,” he said more gravely, cupping his hands around the
drink and nodding slowly more to himself apparently than to her. “Yes, the thing we’re not supposed to talk about. Not even to each other.”

He looked at her meaningfully. Ignoring his implied warning, she recounted her experience at Innsmouth and he listened without interrupting. She didn’t mention that Anwick had attempted to negotiate his escape using her as bargaining tool for two reasons: firstly, she hated the idea that he might express some sympathy for her or consider her vulnerable in any way and, secondly, she hadn’t had a chance to properly mull over Anwick’s words to her; the reason he let her go. “I’m sorry,” he had said. “I didn’t realise you were a Host.” She had questioned Omotoso on the way out but he couldn’t shed any light on what he meant. But there was a lot he hadn’t told her and that may well have been down
to the lawyer’s presence there.

When she’d finished telling him everything he nodded solemnly.

“So you’ve never heard of this place? What’s it called – Innsmouth?”

“I’ve heard of it but I’d no idea it was operational. It’s a bit like visiting Castle Howard and finding real knights sat around an open fire roasting a hog and drinking mead.”

“There were never knights at Castle Howard. Anyway, do you know who’s prosecuting Anwick?” he asked.

“Nope.”

“Amanda Harker Q.C.”

“Who?”

“Jesus. Harker is one of the most formidable barristers on the circuit. You must have heard of her? The Riddle trial last year? Remember those rapes in Norwich? No DNA, no decent witnesses, no forensics. Nothing. But she got a prosecution.”

“How?”

“By putting Riddle on the stand and letting him sit and knit out his case slowly and comprehensively until the point where the jury had absolutely no doubt he was telling the truth. Then she took a needle and methodically and brutally unpicking everything he said until she found a loose strand. She took the strand and pulled and pulled and after five and half hours the whole goddamn stitching came undone.”

“Wow. You must
really
like her.”

“Ok, no need for that. Just take her seriously. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Would I do anything other than the very thing you say I should?” She smiled and winked.

He sighed and went back to burning his mouth on the coffee.