Fear No Evil (32 page)

‘Did Geneva contact you again? After you’d met her that time?’ I asked Will. ‘She was researching the history of the building, according to her cousin. Planned on doing the Casey version of an exorcism, which probably would have involved hand grenades and bulldozers.’

‘No. No she didn’t,’ he said, looking at me thoughtfully. ‘Do you think that’s the answer? Do you think we should demolish it? I mean, we’d take a financial hit, and the Institute would be horrified, but if that’s what it takes, I’ll do it. It’s not listed or anything.’

I couldn’t imagine why. Oh yes, that was it. It was hideous.

I looked to Dan for guidance. I’d have been happy to light the fuse personally, but he’d know more than I as to whether it would do any good, or if the demon would simply move along the road to the Shire Horse instead. Where nobody would even notice if a chick started crying tears of blood and its head spun round on its neck.

‘It shouldn’t come to that. And anyway, I want to go back in and finish the job off properly,’ said Dan.

‘What – this time it’s personal?’ I said.

‘It’s always personal,’ he replied seriously. Okay. I was clearly being too flippant, as usual.

‘When can we do that, then?’ I asked.

‘As soon as Justin’s well enough, which should be in—’

‘Four or five days,’ said Betty, her insistent voice almost drowning out Justin’s growled: ‘Tomorrow.’

‘O-kay,’ I said. ‘So, at some point soon we go back in. Do we need to, you know, evacuate it or something? Could we do that Will?’

‘It would be tricky, but not impossible,’ he said. ‘I’m sure we could manufacture a gas leak or something equally dangerous, and if I had notice, I’d sort out alternate accommodation for everyone. I could book all those budget hotels on the edge of town.’

Oh, to have such resources.

‘That might be the way to go,’ said Betty. ‘In the past we’ve managed to contain things, but this one seems on a bigger scale. Don’t you think, Dan?’

‘Yes. We’ll wait a couple of days – Justin stop whinging, you’re too important to all this to not be on full strength – and then decide when to do it. Will, you can work on the practicalities. Betty, do you have that list of names? The missing children?’

‘This might be a stupid question,’ I interrupted, ‘but is it them? Or is it a demon? I don’t really understand what the fuck is going on.’

‘I think it’s both,’ said Dan, frowning. ‘I think the horror of what happened to those children has lingered in that building. You heard them singing, the games in the background. The voice coming out of Sophie’s mouth. It’s like they banded together in death. They’ve probably been there, in that building, for decades, without harming anyone, taking solace in each other. Now they’ve been twisted, corrupted. The question is by what.’

‘Okay. Well. I suppose that’s your bag. What do you need me to do?’ I asked, moving away from the subject even though I felt far from happy with it. Kids. Poor, terrified kids, torn away from their families and murdered. But it was too late for hugs and kisses now – whatever they once were had changed, and it was threatening more innocent lives. So it had to stop.

‘Rest,’ said Dan. ‘Pray. Go to confession if you feel like.’

No. I really didn’t feel like. I’d be sat in the wooden box for hours, and I didn’t have that kind of time to spare. I was pretty sure there’d be some follow-up from Wigwam about Solitaire; Eugene may want to see me again, and I had a very strong urge to chat to Jack Moran about Jason Quillian’s future. I knew I needed to talk myself out of that one – Moran wouldn’t listen; there wouldn’t be any evidence, and deep down, I realised that karma would take care of Quillian itself. He wouldn’t live to see thirty anyway, he was too nasty and too stupid.

‘But there must be some way to prepare?’ I said. ‘We’re going in to a bad situation – there must be—’

‘Weapons? Knives, guns, karate kicks?’ said Dan, smiling at me like I was Alice in Wonderland, confused and bemused by my bizarre new world. I nodded.

‘No. Nothing like that. Nothing you’re used to. But there are some rituals, some prayers we can do, to strengthen ourselves. And we can talk to you and Will about what to expect – assuming you still want in on this, Will? Nobody will think any the worse of you if you don’t.’

‘Well,’ said Will, standing up and straightening down his pinny. ‘To say I “want” to be there is probably overstating the case. But I need to be there. I’d like to bash its head in with a sledgehammer, but I’ll settle for reciting the Lord’s Prayer and catching any stray students who fly out of the window. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think my cookies will be just about ready.’

Right on time, the oven went ‘ping’.

Chapter 39

The next couple of days were bizarrely quiet. Justin was itching to get back into Hart House, but Betty was standing firm until he could, well, stand equally firm. And as a walk to the bathroom still made him go weak at the knees, she was keeping her Nurse Ratched act up. She had allowed his girlfriend one supervised visit, strictly no conjugal rights. She was called Samantha and she was indeed big, and very, very beautiful.

I had a couple of meetings. One with Wigwam, who assured me the police weren’t looking for anyone else in connection with Solitaire’s death. They’d tried to find the CCTV footage of course, which would have shown two interesting visitors just before his suicide, but it was a live feed and there was no way of tracing where it went. And Eugene wasn’t putting his hand up to tell them.

He was, apparently, going even more quietly nuts than ever, and giving some serious consideration to hiring a Voodoo priestess from Rochdale – yeah, I know, Rochdale – to try and curse Solitaire beyond the grave. Wigwam was trying to keep that one quiet, or there’d be whispering in the ranks about the old fella going funny. Well, it least it distracted him from Yours Truly.

I’d also learned that Quillian’s expert legal representation had disappeared as fast as that CCTV footage, leaving him shouting and screaming about corruption and set-ups. Nobody paid any attention. That’s what all the scumbags did, after all.

As for Bobby, there wasn’t much anybody could do. He was dead and gone. But Wigwam did let slip that he’d ‘sorted out’ his sister. At first I was worried he meant his accepted form of ‘sorting out’, which usually involved a hatchet and some cheese wire. But no, it was purely financial. She hadn’t been too well since her brother’s death, he said. I hoped it was just grief – but I couldn’t forget Bobby’s face when he told me about the Demon Thing’s predictions about her slow and painful death. At least now she wouldn’t have to worry about money. That Wigwam. Such an old softie.

I’d also been out for a drink with D.I Alec Jones, and filled him in on as much as I could without implicating myself. He might be a tasty morsel, and was fast turning into a friend, but he was a bobby first and foremost, and I couldn’t tell him too much for fear of dropping myself in it big time. We indulged in a gentle flirting session, drank a few pints, and ended the night with a fairly delicious almost-snog outside the Pig’s Trotter. Kind of a goodbye kiss on the cheek that accidentally-on-purpose ended up on the lips. No tongues, though, so it didn’t count. Now wasn’t the time for distractions – but Alec Jones was right up there on my party hit list for when all of this was over. I’d get him drunk and we’d sing Rod on the karaoke together. It’s always good to have firm life plans in place.

Tish had essentially gone underground, and apart from the occasional snatched phone call, I didn’t hear from her. She knew I was okay. She was busy. Therefore she ignored me. She was always the same when she was working on a big story – but usually only for a day or two. Maybe this time she was writing a book. She’d bought a new camera, to replace the one smashed up by ‘demon bitch’, as she called it, and was planning to shoot some background shots. Of what, I had no idea. I warned her off Hart House, hoping she wasn’t as stupid as me. I thought not, from the snort of laughter she gave me. We’d have to drag her kicking and screaming by her Louboutins into that place again.

That morning, I’d woken up late, and realised I had nothing to do. Which is always a dangerous state of affairs with me. I’d make some crack about the Devil and idle hands, but I was a little more cautious about these things now.

There was a knock on the door, which usually meant the postman. I opened it, expecting to sign for a package, and instead was faced by a man the size of a small oak tree dressed in a designer tracksuit and mirrored Ray Bans. Indoors. Always a good look, assuming the look you’re going for is ‘complete idiot’.

‘Delivery from Mr Casey Senior,’ he said, placing a set of keys and a thick envelope of papers in my hand before leaving. Great conversationalist.

I took the lift down to the lobby and walked outside to my parking space, already suspecting what I was going to see. Sure enough, there it was. A bright red BMW Z4. Brand new plates. Smoky glass windows, leather seats. Every gadget known to man in there, and probably a few James Bond hadn’t heard of. I sighed, kicked the wheel, and went back upstairs to get ready. I couldn’t keep it of course, but it did at least deserve one drive. It’d be rude not to.

As I brushed my hair and slapped on a bit of make-up – the car kind of demanded it of me, to be honest – my phone rang. I let it go to voicemail, as I was about to poke my own eyeball out with a mascara stick at the time.

When I checked the message afterwards I recognised the voice immediately. The deep, nicotine-drenched gravel of Lorraine Connelly.

‘Hiya. It’s me. Lorraine. Wigwam’s filled me in on it all. Doesn’t bring her back, but at least now I know. Fucking Solitaire, the bastard. I wish she’d come to me, I’d have slapped some sense into her but… well, that wasn’t the way she was made. Anyway. I just wanted to say ta. Very much.’

Okay, so Lorraine wasn’t on a par with Martin Luther King when it came to making heartfelt speeches. And it was just a little phone message, not even a bunch of flowers or a box of Quality Street. But hearing those words meant more to me than a flame-red Beemer ever could – even one with a built in MP3 player.

The whole thing had been a shitstorm since it started, but I’d done my job, and provided answers to someone who needed them. Now all I had to do was act as glamorous assistant in an exorcism, find an acceptable way to explain that to Rose Middlemas, and then move on. Get back to the humdrum world of insurance fraud and marital strife and missing pets. No demons. No crime lords. And no Dan Lennon.

That last part made me feel a bit sad, so I grabbed up my keys and jogged down the three flights of stairs to distract myself. Why confront awkward feelings head on, when you could so easily avoid them?

I climbed into the car and sat back in the seat, sucking in the smell of showroom-new upholstery. I opened the glove box and found an envelope stuffed with £50 notes. I closed my eyes and resisted the temptation to count it, instead shoving it back in. I’d make sure Betty and Justin had their costs covered, and give the rest to Father Kerrigan. Didn’t churches always need new rooves? In the movies, I’d make some grand gesture – return it, burn it or throw it in the Mersey, making a big speech about it being dirty. But this was the real world, and money helped it all go round.

I started the engine, going gently at first. This was an alien machine, and a lot more powerful than my little Suzuki. Once I was out through the gates and onto the main road that runs through Liverpool city centre, I decided where I was going. First stop, Everton.

It’s not far, just the edge of the city really, but a lifetime away from Wapping and its bevy of young professionals and prosperous retirees taking in dinner and a show every night. Dominated by council blocks, some tall, some squat, some boarded up, some not, it ain’t the snazziest part of town. In fact, if you hear a car backfire, you’re best to duck and wait. My favourite ever small ad was about Everton, back when I was first looking to rent my own place. ‘Three bedroomed house, Everton Brow,’ it said. ‘Big dog and strong nerves required.’ A landlord with a sense of humour. I’d almost gone to view it just to meet him.

It is an area I know well, though, largely due to the prominent location of a funeral parlour where I’d had to attend numerous ‘viewings’ of deceased family members. Always a happy time. There’s also been a lot of regeneration, as there has across the city – new homes, bright new estates with gardens and drives to replace the deterioration that had spread over the decades. And to be fair, there are a lot of really, really nice people living in Everton. As well as some very active Church and community groups – all of which, from the signs outside the parochial centre, seemed to be making their home with Father Kerrigan at St Philip’s.

I’d pulled – well, kind of skidded, truth be told – to a stop in the small car park and looked at the posters in the window. Wow. I could learn how to make my own funky fashion accessories; join a Tai Chi class; meet other young mums; quit smoking; and get free benefits advice. All in the same place. And I suppose if I had time after all that, I could even squeeze in a quick Mass.

As I was making a mental note of the times of the Cooking for Dummies classes, I heard footsteps approaching me and turned round, slightly too nervily for broad daylight on a busy Liverpool street. What can I say, I was living in a constant state of slightly spooked these days.

‘Thinking of signing up? I’m told the Saturday afternoon Pilates gets particularly busy,’ said Dan. He’d obviously just been for a run, and was wearing shorts and a black Adidas T-shirt with the old-school trefoil logo on the front. Knowing Dan it wasn’t a retro purchase, it was just really, really old.

Sweat was running from his hairline down the sides of his face, pooling in the hollow where his collarbones met. I took a little gulp and tried not to stare. There was just a bit too much of him on show, and he was hot and freshly exercised and somehow still managing to smell really, really good.

‘I didn’t know you run,’ I said, as he wiped the sweat from his face with the back of one hand.