Cold Sacrifice (22 page)

‘Would you like to kill more women? Is that what you want?’

Warrior trembled. He felt as though the leader had penetrated deep into his mind, and observed him more accurately than he could ever dare to see himself.

In spite of his relief he was afraid, as much of himself as of the leader.

‘I did it for you,’ he said desperately. ‘I did it to protect you. I didn’t mean any harm –’

‘It is of no consequence,’ the leader reassured him, dismissing his words with an elegant wave of his hand. ‘The gods see your motives. They gave you strength, and will protect you. You have nothing to fear. Now tell me, what troubles you? Regrets are foolish.’

The leader always understood.

‘I need to know,’ Warrior said. ‘Was it wrong to kill her?’

The leader’s face relaxed into a solemn smile.

‘She would have died anyway. Everyone dies. It is what happens after death that concerns us. Nothing that happens here on this earth is of any lasting significance.’

‘But killing – doesn’t that matter?’

‘You had no choice. You had to remove her. She was a threat to us all. A man has the right to protect his own.’

‘What about the police?’ Warrior asked. He couldn’t believe it was really going to be all right. ‘What if they suspect me?’

‘You were careful. Only have faith, and the gods will protect you. We are the enlightened ones.’

‘We are the enlightened ones,’ he repeated the familiar chant. ‘We follow the path to eternal salvation. We will be saved. ’

The leader himself stepped out to recall the disciples into the meeting room. Seated once more in his high-backed chair, he announced that Warrior had earned the right to sit as one of them.

‘Our number is growing,’ he intoned. ‘Warrior has performed another sacrifice, and proved himself worthy to serve us. He is no longer a follower, he is a disciple of the sacred cause.’

‘He is a disciple of our sacred leader,’ the others chanted.

‘I am a disciple of our sacred leader,’ Warrior cried out.

He tried to remain subdued, as fitted the occasion, but he couldn’t contain his joy.

‘His name is no longer Warrior,’ the leader announced when they had finished chanting. ‘He has a special calling. He will be called Assassin.’

R
OB STEPPED INSIDE THE
unit behind Ian, closed the door and pulled on his gloves. The two men stood side by side, their arms nearly touching in the confined space. Attached to the wall in front of them was a twelve-inch crucifix. Carved in wood, painted flesh colour, the figure had glass eyes and was wearing a white loin cloth. Beneath it on a white table stood a twelve-inch statue of the virgin Mary, her hands pressed together in prayer, her robes painted blue and white, her skin a similar pale flesh colour. Both Mary and Jesus had bare feet and were crowned with bright yellow haloes. The floor in front of the icons was dust-free in two places. There was nothing else in the storage space. Ian was in no doubt about the identity of the customer. At the same time he understood that the carpet in Martha’s bedroom hadn’t been scrubbed to clean away blood stains; it had been worn away by someone kneeling in prayer.

Rob swore. It was far from the conclusive evidence of murder they had been hoping to find.

‘We’ll get finger prints and send a SOCO team down to see if there’s anything,’ he said.

On their way out they confirmed that the lock-up had been rented by Martha Martin.

‘Is there a problem with it?’ the manager asked again.

‘Oh my God,’ the receptionist cried out suddenly. ‘I recognise that name. It’s the woman, isn’t it? The one who was stabbed to death in Herne Bay!’

Her eyes grew round with excitement. Ian swore under his breath. So much for discretion. There was no way they could keep this silly girl quiet. If they asked her to keep this information a secret, she would probably blab to the press as well as to her friends.

‘It’s a common name,’ was all he said.

They didn’t speak in the car on the way back to Herne Bay. Ian was thinking about Henry, who had been released. They didn’t have enough to hold him. They knew Martha had been brought up as a Catholic. Henry wasn’t a practising Christian and, as far as they knew, his wife no longer adhered to her religion. If their neighbour’s report was reliable, the marriage had been unhappy but they had stayed together. Perhaps Ian’s first instinct had been correct. Henry had wanted a divorce, but his wife had refused, because she still clung to her Catholicism. She had kept her faith secret, storing her iconography in a secure unit in Canterbury, and hiding the key from her husband. It gave Henry another motive for wanting to be rid of his wife. Desperate to escape from a miserable marriage, killing his wife offered him the added bonus that he would become a wealthy man. But they still lacked proof, and there remained the problem of the alibi which Della had given, an alibi which could no longer be corroborated.

‘If we could prove that Henry paid Della to give him an alibi,’ he said, ‘that would be something.’

Rob shrugged. There was no need to point out the futility of the idea. Even if they were able to establish that Henry had handed a substantial amount of money to Della, there was no way of proving he had bribed her to lie for him. Men paid women like that all the time. ‘Maybe she told her flatmate about it,’ he suggested.

‘Hearsay,’ Rob replied. ‘But you can go and talk to her again if you want.’

Ian dropped the inspector off in Herne Bay and drove on to Margate. Questioning the dead girl’s flatmate gave him something to do and he couldn’t bear to sit at his desk fiddling about. He had to be out doing something. At least that way there was a chance he might uncover a new lead. At the moment, they were completely in the dark. After his excitement at finding the key, his disappointment was acute.

Gaining access to the block was easy, but no one came to the door when he rang the bell to the flat where Della had lived with Candy. Cursing, he rang the bell again. There was still no answer. On the off chance that the bell wasn’t working, he knocked violently. The door shuddered as though it wasn’t securely in place. He turned the handle and the door opened. The whole time he had been ringing the bell, the flat had been unlocked. He went in and pulled the door shut behind him, intending to take a quick look around. He opened the door to Candy’s room and stole inside. Turning, he almost yelled in surprise. Candy was lying on the bed, propped up against the headboard in an awkward position. She seemed to be staring straight at him, without moving or crying out. Gazing into her vacant eyes, he reached out to feel her neck for a pulse.

As he leaned over the bed, she raised one hand and pointed her finger at him. Startled by her movement, he drew back.

‘You,’ she mumbled.

The lifeless expression in her eyes didn’t alter. Her pupils were dilated, her voice slurred. Clearly she was out of her head on alcohol or drugs, or a cocktail of both. She spoke slowly and deliberately as though it was an immense effort to articulate the words.

‘You,’ she repeated, her eyes fixed on his face. ‘Why’re you here? What you doing here? ’S my room. My room. Get the fuck out my room, pig.’

Her eyes closed, as though she had exhausted her energy. Ian wondered whether she might be more likely to tell the truth when she was high, if he was able to get any sense out of her at all. She was in no state to challenge his entering her flat without permission, yet lucid enough to know who he was. The next day she wouldn’t remember that he had let himself in, if she remembered speaking to him at all.

‘Why’re you here?’ she asked again, raising herself up with a grunt and resting on one elbow.

Ian determined to make the best of the situation. Time was pressing. He might not have another chance to speak to her when she was out of control. It was unethical, but she would have no recollection of his visit. In the meantime, he had a double murder to investigate. If he could advance the investigation by ignoring the niceties of protocol just this once, so be it. No one would know. The ends would justify the means. Aware that he was taking advantage of her vulnerable state, he spoke quietly.

‘I came here to ask you a question.’

Candy sniggered.

‘The question,’ she repeated in a singsong voice, ‘the question.’

Ian cleared his throat. But before he could continue, she flopped back against her pillows again, giggling hysterically. On hearing her former flatmate’s name, she stopped laughing abruptly.

‘He done for her,’ she muttered. ‘He done it.’

‘Done it? What did he do to her? Candy, talk to me.’

‘He did for her.’

‘He? Who is he?’

Ian took a step forward.

‘Candy, it’s very important you tell me who he is. Who did for Della? Who was it?’

She didn’t answer.

‘Did a man give her money to lie for him?’

Candy stared at her feet, stretched out on the bed in front of her.

‘Who killed Della?’

Candy closed her eyes. Her mouth dropped open and she began to snore gently. Ian waited a moment, then began to search once more through piles of soiled clothing, cheap jewellery, bottles and jars of perfume, hand cream, make-up, and hair accessories, but he found nothing to help his enquiry, and only thirty pounds in cash in her purse. If she knew about money Henry had given to Della, she had probably spent it herself. He glanced at her prostrate form on the bed. It didn’t need a detective to work out how she would have disposed of a windfall.

B
EN HAD NO OPTION
but to carry his knife with him at all times. It was only just over a week since he had found it but the knife had already changed his life so much that he couldn’t imagine living without it. The question was how to carry it around without anyone seeing. It didn’t matter that other kids knew. On the contrary, the more of them who heard about it, the better. But he had to make sure no adult spotted it. If his mother, or Eddy, or any of his teachers got their thieving hands on it, he would be in trouble with everyone. The adults would punish him for carrying a knife, and his classmates wouldn’t hesitate to beat him up once they were no longer in awe of him. It would be unbearable. He could just imagine the taunts.

‘Not so tough now, are you?’

Ben had never learned how to sew. As if! But he needed to create a pocket inside his school jacket where he could keep his knife out of sight. It was surprisingly easy to get hold of the essential materials. He thought he would have to go to Canterbury or Faversham, but it turned out there was a sewing shop in the High Street right there in Herne Bay. The needles he had nicked from school were useless so he bought one that worked better, telling the woman in the shop that his mother had sent him to buy the biggest needle there was, and some really strong thread. He was afraid she would laugh at him, but she just asked him what colour he wanted. The most difficult part of the task would be lining the pocket with something that would protect him from the sharp blade. After casting around for something to use, he finally nicked his mother’s leather jacket. Locked in the bathroom, he chopped off a sleeve, grinning as his new knife sliced through the leather with ease. He bundled the remainder of the jacket into a carrier bag which he dumped in a skip outside a house round the corner. He covered it with a pile of rubble. His mother would never find it there. No one would notice it hidden beneath a load of rubbish. Then he raced home, eager to start.

Armed with needle and thread he painstakingly sewed a secret pocket inside his jacket. It took days. Not only was it difficult, but he could only work on it when his mother and Eddy were out. Even then he locked himself safely in the bathroom before getting down to it. When the pocket was finished, he turned his attention to the leather. That was more difficult to sew. He soon regretted having chucked the rest of the jacket away. If he ruined the one piece he had kept, he would have to find something else to use. By the time he finished sewing, his fingers were sore from pushing the end of the needle through the fabric. But he had done it. He slid the knife into its leather sheath and slipped it into the pocket inside his jacket. Staring at himself in the mirror in his mum’s room, he thought he looked OK. He couldn’t bend over, but at least the knife didn’t show. The only danger was if some dick of a teacher told him to take his jacket off. But for now that wasn’t going to be a problem. By the time the weather grew warm again, he would have assembled his own gang to protect him.

Ben didn’t take much notice of a group of older boys hanging around just inside the school gate. It was no big deal. He was armed. One of his mates came running out of the school grounds to join him.

‘You seen them?’ Col’s eyes were bright with anger.

Ben grinned at him. Small and wiry, Col was always over-excited about something.

‘Stay cool, bro. What’s going on?’ Ben asked nonchalantly.

‘It’s them, innit. Chas’s lot. All of them in the playground.’

‘They better not mess with me.’

Col giggled nervously at Ben’s bravado and stood aside to let him go in first. Ben flung his shoulders back and strode into the playground. He felt ten-feet tall.

Just inside the gate, his way was blocked by a thickset boy who towered over him, a vicious grin on his ugly face.

‘Where do you think you’re going, faggot?’

The other boys joined in, jeering and calling Ben names. By the time he realised how many of them were there, he was surrounded. He couldn’t see Col, not that he would have been much help. There was nothing for it but to tough it out. It was time someone taught Chas a lesson. Everyone said so. But fear made his legs feel weak, and he was too frightened to speak.

Chas stepped forward and shoved him roughly on the shoulder. Ben staggered and nearly lost his balance. He could hear laughter. When he glanced around, looking for an escape route, he saw that he and Chas were hemmed in by a crowd of jostling kids all chanting, ‘Fight! Fight! Fight!’.

With a burst of adrenaline he reached inside his jacket, pulled out his knife, and brandished it in the air. The blade shook in his grasp as he struggled to hold his arm steady. His hands were sweaty with panic. He wasn’t sure how he managed to keep hold of the knife and stay upright. All he wanted to do was barge his way through the throng and run as fast as he could.