Moon (30 page)

    There was still a chance to get out - if they didn't choke to death on the way down.

    He gathered the two girls to him, kneeling so that his face was on a level with theirs. 'We're going to be fine,' he said, his voice dry and strained. 'We're walking down the stairs and we'll be outside within minutes. The stairs are concrete, as I told you, so they can't catch fire, but we'll have to keep away from the corridors.' He reached into his pocket. 'Rachel, you keep this hanky over your mouth and nose.'

    Obediently, she took the handkerchief from him and pressed it to her face.

    'Sandy, I'm afraid we'll have to spoil your nightie.' He reached for the hem and tore off a long strip of material, then tied it around her neck so that the lower half of her face was masked. He stood, but still crouched low. 'Okay, here we go,' he said.

    Childes took their hands and led them down the first flight of stairs, keeping to the wall and away from the rising fumes.

    The deeper they went, the fiercer the heat became.

    Sandy and Rachel hung back and Childes had to tug at them to keep them moving. Reaching a corner between first and second floors, he closed them in, protecting their bodies with his own. Rachel's knees were sagging as she leaned into the corner and he could see in the red light that she would never make it all the way down. He shrugged off his jacket and draped it over her head, then lifted her. She slumped against him, only half-conscious. Maybe that was just as well; she'd be easier to handle. He took Sandy's hand once more and continued the descent, shielding her as best he could.

    'Not far now!' he said loudly to encourage her.

    In response, her other hand curled around his upper arm, holding tight. For an instant, Gabby's bespectacled face swam before him and he almost cried out her name. It was he who now faltered, sliding down the wall to sit on the steps, Rachel cradled in his lap, completely covered by his jacket and almost oblivious to what was going on. And it was Sandy who tugged at his shoulder, who worried him into rising again, refusing to let him rest for even a moment.

    He looked into her upturned, dirt-streaked face, flickering shadows playing over her features, and she repeated his own words: 'Not far now.'

    Not far, he kept telling himself, not far now, soon be on the last flight of stairs. But his strength was fading fast, was really leaving him this time, the last reserves expelled with his now ceaseless dry-retch coughing, each lungful of air taken in filled with asphyxiating fumes; and he could hardly see where to place his next step, so full were his eyes with running, stinging tears which made the rims of his eyelids so sore that it hurt even to squeeze them shut…

    … and Sandy was pulling him down, her exhausted little body unable to cope any more, her bare legs giving way so that she began to sink lower and lower until he was finally dragging her down the stone steps by her arm…

    … and his senses were reeling, full of images of moonstones and Gabby's face and torn mutilated bodies and piercing malevolent eyes that leered mockingly through flames, and Amy, cut and bleeding and writhing, and the glistening white and smooth moon shining through the whirling smoke layers, its lower curvature seeping dark blood…

    … and he was fading, slowly sinking with each blundering step downwards, losing his grip on Sandy, his hand touching warm concrete, taking his own weight so that he could gently lower himself, let his body fold up to rest, succumbing to the choking heat, even though there was only a short way to go, just one more flight, one more -

    A tiny part of his flagging senses revived a fraction, became alert to something that was happening below. His length sprawled on the stairs, he raised himself on one elbow.

    Voices. He could hear voices. Shouting. Dark silhouettes against flames that billowed from a corridor on the ground floor. Figures on the stairs. Coming towards him…

    

    

    MOONSTONE

    
(potassium aluminium silicate KA 1Si3O8)

    
Density: 2.57

    
Hardness: 6

    
Indices of refraction: 1.519-1.526 (low)

    
A variety of orthoclase feldspar, moonstone exhibits a faint but characteristic fluorescence when subjected to X-ray radiation.

    
Moonstone, so called because when held to light, presents silvery play of colour not unlike that of the moon. Colour, usually white, known to mineralogists as schillerisation, from German word 'schiller’ meaning iridescence. Found in Sri Lanka, Madagascar and Burma.

    

    

    Overoy stubbed out the remains of his cigarette, rubbing his tired eyes with thumb and forefinger of his other hand. He sat at the dining-table, a light hanging so low over the smoked-glass surface that the room around him was cast in shadows. The living area was beyond a squared archway, two small rooms made into one large, an alteration he had tackled himself when he and Josie had moved nine years before, a distant time when he possessed energy for both career and domestic enterprises. Only a single lamp shone in that room, the television in grey suspension, curtains closed against the summer's night.

    Nothing. He looked down at his notes and said the word: 'Nothing.'

    The tiny gem was no more than some kind of kinky calling-card. But calling-cards were a reference. So why a moonstone? A reference to the moon?

    With one hand he spread the notes before him, sweeping them in an arc like a winning hand of cards.

    Amy Sebire had suggested that Moon was a name. Yet Childes had psychically seen the moon as a symbol.

    A symbol representing a name?

    Overoy reached for the cigarette pack, found it empty, tossed the carton towards the end of the table. He stood, stretching his arms out behind his back, taking a short walk around the table. He sat once more and ran his hands over his face and around to the back of his neck, entwining his fingers there.

    How was Childes coping? he wondered. Against all the rules, Overoy had left scene-of-crime evidence with him. A tiny piece of evidence, the moonstone itself. Childes had wanted the gem. So why not? It was useless to the police. But the stone had some significance for the killer. Checking jewellers in and around the London area had yielded nothing so far, even though the gem on its own wasn't a usual item for sale. The person they were looking for was obviously shopping around, never using the same place twice.

    His weary eyes ranged over the pile of books heaped on the dark glass, most of them unhelpful, the information he needed sifted only from a few. That information was all to do with the moon; or more precisely, the mystical aspect of the moon.

    Moon-madness, Josie had scolded him before leaving him in the gloom for their bed.

    Not my moon-madness, Josie; someone else's.

    Ask any policeman how the crime rate, usually with violence, inexplicably increased during a full moon. Even headshrinks believed a full moon tended to bring out the loonies. Overoy had underlined a note he had made:
If the moon has an effect on the earth's water masses, then why not also on the brain, which is semi-liquid pulp?
It was a thought.

    And two
new
moons in one single month was said to be calamitous by those who believed in such things. There had been two new moons in May when the Moonstone atrocities had begun. That point had been underscored in his notes as well.

    Another common belief among many people was that the moon's maleficent character (despite his weariness he smiled at himself, thinking of the old Man in the Moon and his cranky ways) could be manifested here on earth as a baleful emanation by those who had occult powers. Interesting but not a point to put before the commissioner.

    He picked up a red felt-tip and circled the capital-letter word MUTILATIONS, then drew a line from it to another: RITUAL. Close to that he now wrote: SACRIFICE?? Perhaps a better word was OFFERING.

    Offering to what? The moon? No, there had to be some kind of reasoning, even if only a crazy man's reasoning. To a moon god then? Goddesses seemed to dominate that area of worship, so let's make it moon goddess. Oh boy, if the boys in blue could see him now.

    All right. There were a few moon goddesses to ponder on. Let's run through the list again:

    DIANA

    ARTEMIS

    SELENE

    Then three who were the same:

    AGRIOPE - Greek -› HECATE

    SHEOL - Hebrew -› HECATE

    NEPHYS - Egyptian -› HECATE

    
Hecate.
Why did that one ring a bell, albeit a very distant bell? Coming across that name in his researches had prompted further investigation into moon worship and the relevant gods and goddesses. (She seemed to be the most popular, but why should that mean anything? Let's have a look at her.)

    
Hecate.
Goddess of the dead. Necromantic rituals devoted to her. Daughter of the Titan Perses and of Asteria. Protector and teacher of sorceresses. (Was he really taking all this seriously?)

    
Hecate.
Keyholder of Hell, dispatcher of phantoms from the underworld. At night she would leave Hades and roam on earth accompanied by hounds and the souls of the dead, her hair like bristling snakes and her voice like a howling dog. Her favourite nocturnal retreat was near a lake called Armarantiam Phasis, 'the lake of murders'. (Nice lady.)

    
Hecate.
Possessor of all the great dark knowledges, mother of witches. (What was it about the name?)

    
Hecate.
Like the moon she was fickle and inconsistent of character. At times benign and motherly, acting as midwife, nurse and foster-mother, watching over crops and flocks. But the other side of her nature, the dark side, gradually superseded her kinder side. She had become an infernal deity, a snake goddess with three heads -a dog's, a horse's, a lion's. (Real Edgar Allen. Hell, he couldn't believe he'd written it all down. At least he'd been wise enough to carry out his research at home.)

    Overoy reached for the half-drunk mug of coffee lurking behind the pile of books, his lips curling back in disgust on tasting the tepid dregs. He put down the mug again and relaxed back in the chair. Where was he getting with all this? Was the research mere time-wasting or did it really have some relevance? They were dealing with someone who had a sick, deranged mind, someone who desecrated the dead, mutilated murdered victims. Someone who left a moonstone as a calling-card, and someone who got a kick out of psychological torment. Not a pleasant person. But a moon-worshipper? Or, more accurately, a moon-goddess worshipper?

    Nah, no sense to it.

    But their quarry was demented anyway.

    Why had Hecate stuck in his mind? What was familiar about that name? Something he'd seen somewhere…

    He groaned. No good, he was too tired to think any more. Everything was buzzing around inside his head and none of it settling. Bed. Sleep on it. Talk with Josie - whoops, was that the time? Talk to her in the morning; she always helped clear his thoughts. Maybe he'd got it all wrong anyway. Moon-goddesses, moon-worshippers, moonstones. Psychics. Life was simpler on the beat.

    Overoy rose from the dining-table and, hands tucked into trouser pockets, took one last look at his spread notes.

    Finally shrugging, he turned off the light and went up to bed…

    

    

    … And awoke at dawn, the answer there before him like a faint neon sign seen through fog. Not much, no big deal, but a glimmer. All grogginess instantly gone, he scrambled out of bed.

    

    

    
Full moon..

    

    

    'To whom am I speaking to?'

    'Hello, Daddy!'

    'Hi, Pickle.'

    'Daddy, I've started a new school.'

    'Yes, I know, Mummy just told me. Have you made any new friends yet?'

    'We-11, one. Two really, but I'm not sure of Lucy yet. Do I have to stay at this school, Daddy? I miss my proper one.'

    'Only for a little while, Gabby, just until summer holidays begin.'

    'Then will we go home to our own house?'

    'Don't you like it there at Nanny's?'

    'Ooh yes, but home is nicer. Nanny spoils me, she thinks I'm still a baby.'

    'She doesn't realise you're a big girl now?'

    'No. But it's not her fault, she has good pretensions.' He chuckled. 'Make the most of it, kiddo, you're a long time old.'

    'All grups say that.'

    'Grups' was their special word for grown-ups. 'Are you coming to see me soon, Daddy? I've done some pictures for you, I did them with finger-paints. Nanny's cross about the walls, but she didn't smack me, she never does.
Are
you coming to see me, Daddy?'

    Childes hesitated. 'I'm not sure, Gabby. You know I want to, don't you?'

    'Are you too busy at your schools? I told my new friends you were a teacher, but Lucy didn't believe me. She said teachers didn't teach video games. I tried to explain, Daddy, but you know how thicko some children can be. When it's holiday time, can I come and see you?'

    So many uncertainties in his mind, but he told her yes, anyway. 'But I don't want to go on a boat this time, Daddy,' she said after her initial pleasure, her voice becoming low. 'No, you'll come by plane.'

    'I mean there - I don't want to go on a boat like last time.'

    'When we cruised round the island on that little motorboat, when we went to all those sandy beaches? I thought you enjoyed that.'