Inferno (CSI Reilly Steel #2) (11 page)

‘Erm, very nice,’ Kennedy said, obviously confused as to what the interior of the church had to do with anything, when the dead body had been found in the grounds.

‘Look up a little,’ Reilly told him.

Above the statue and the stations, dwarfing them both, was an immense carving depicting a huge gnarled hawthorn tree, its twisting limbs running around the corners, and back out of sight into the recess.

The screen that separated the nave from the chancel bore a hawthorn leaf motif, and was topped with a hawthorn branch curled into a shepherd's crook instead of a more traditional crucifix. Reilly had the botanical knowledge to pick up on how deeply the image of the hawthorn tree had permeated this place of worship.

Kennedy let out a long, low whistle. ‘Now I get you. That’s a big tree.’

‘Yes it is,’ Henrietta continued giddily. ‘Almost as big as the real one. Come on, I’ll take you to it.’ 

She started down the aisle, continuing a steady stream of chatter, Reilly and Kennedy in step behind her. ‘Marcus, our groundsman, is out there keeping an eye on the poor soul since Father Byrne found him this earlier morning.’

Reaching the transept, Henrietta turned right, and then left again, pulling back a gray curtain with ‘Private’ embroidered across it. She then led them through the vestry, which was spartan and smelled of bleach and disinfectant. Jeyes Fluid, to be precise, Reilly’s trusty nose informed her.

From there, Henrietta opened a side door and took them out into the church’s rear grounds. Reilly immediately spotted the tree the funny little woman had been referring to. 

The church property backed onto deep woodland, the plot long and deep, and cleared back to well over a hundred yards.

About two-thirds of the way down, the gentle rolling lawn was interrupted by a large, circular earthwork, in the centre of which grew a huge hawthorn tree. The gnarled and twisted branches of the tree seemed innumerable, and it wasn’t until she had appreciated the sheer majesty of it that Reilly could comprehend how a body could be hidden there in plain sight.

‘See him just there?’ said a man nearby, whom Reilly deduced was Marcus, pointing to an incongruous patch of bright orange nestled on the side of the tree facing them. It was a quarter of the way up, located in the twisted confines of the thorny labyrinth. ‘We managed to get a tarpaulin over him before the rain really set in,’ the groundsman continued, ‘but it’s pretty obvious he’s been up there for a while, so it’s definitely not the first shower he’s had to endure.’

‘Come on. Let’s get a better look,’ Kennedy said, and they tramped cautiously down through the grass towards the foot of the tree.

The detective reached up and pulled away the tarpaulin, and even Reilly felt her stomach turn over.

Thanks to the elements, the body – that of a man  was in execrable condition. But the first thing she noticed was the teeth. They were clean and white, a pearly parade. The dentalwork stood out as the focal point because it glowed with a bright white light compared to the rest of the corpse, which was naked, gutted and somewhat weathered.

Reilly had seen enough corpses in her life no longer to be affected or nauseated by them, but what she was seeing now was definitely making her woozy.

The stomach, colon, intestines and other lower abdominal organs of the victim  appeared to have been torn out of his body, and suspended from the thorny branches that curled overhead. The trauma of this seemed directly reflected in the searing, suffering aspect of his face.

Even while Reilly gaped aghast at the horrific spectacle, a large crow dropped down from higher up in the canopy and, blithely ignoring the small group standing only a few feet away, began scavenging amongst the dangling innards.

Reaching into his pocket, the groundsman quickly withdrew a palmful of sand and aimed it up at the bird. 

‘No!’ Reilly cried out, aghast. ‘It’s a crime scene, you can’t—’ But it was too late; the damage was done, and there was sand scattered everywhere beneath the tree. Her stomach sank.

Aggravated, the bird leaped into flight and landed on a branch not far from where the group still stood, obviously intent on keeping them under its watchful and unblinking gaze.

The groundsman reddened, horrified. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t think—’

‘Of course you didn’t,’ Reilly snapped irritably.

Another forensic nightmare. She’d need to take a sample of the sand he had left so as to dissociate it from any evidence they might now be lucky enough to find.

Soon afterwards, the ME arrived and began to make arrangements as to how best to extricate the body from its thorny throne. While she waited for the all clear to run the scene from Karen Thompson, Reilly surveyed the site from afar.

As she did, she was reminded of one of Daniel Forrest’s lectures at Quantico. Her former mentor was a stickler for analysis, and, adopting his attitude, Reilly couldn’t help but notice the almost theatrical way the victim had been displayed: suspended from a branch in a tree  but with his head facing towards the hulking form of the church.

She couldn’t be sure, but it was almost as if the killer had intended for the dying man’s tortured gaze to fall directly onto the imposing church tower.

Significant or just coincidence?

She looked at Kennedy. ‘Somebody show me how to get up into that tower.’

C
hris followed the beam of light into the darkness. He could hear Kennedy’s breathing behind him. They stepped up and past the altar, heading for the door in the back corner of the church.

The door was dark, and the ancient wood creaked as Chris gently nudged it open. His torch intruded into the gloom beyond.

‘What is this place?’ Kennedy asked. ‘I came through here earlier with Reilly.’

‘The vestry.’ Chris followed the beam of light into the small room.

It had a dry, musty smell, the scent of old air, scurrying mice and thick layers of dust overlaid with disinfectant. The white painted walls were bare except for a heavy wooden crucifix on the far end. There was a small table in one corner with a sturdy wooden chair, and a recess half covered by a faded velvet curtain.

‘This is where the priest gets changed before the service,’ explained Chris, ‘like his little office at church.’  He looked sideways at Kennedy. ‘Clearly you were never an altar boy.’

Kennedy chuckled. ‘Do I look like the altar boy type to you?’

‘Well, I was.’ Chris gave a little grin to himself in the darkness, imagining his partner’s expression

He got the expected snort in reply. ‘Hard to imagine that. I’d assumed you were a right little terror when you were young.’

‘Oh, I was,’ admitted Chris. ‘That doesn’t stop you from being an altar boy, though –it’s a good grounding in divilment, actually,’ he added, thinking of all the hijinks he and his mates used to get up to, during and after Mass.

His torch highlighted the lock on the back door. ‘Here we go ...’ 

It was not quite closed, and there were clear signs of damage around the lock. ‘That must be how he got in.’ He shone the torch on the floor. There were several sets of footprints in the thick dust.  Someone had gone back and forth recently.

‘So did the priest have anything useful to say for himself?’ Kennedy asked as they looked around the small area.

‘Not a lot, to be honest. He was pretty shaken up, obviously.’

Poor Father Byrne, Chris thought, what must it have been like for him, coming into the church by himself, calm, and at peace with the world, as he got ready for morning Mass, and finding that horror?  And what lasting effect would the intrusion of such profanity and evil in a place he would normally have regarded as safe have on him?

Would it shake his faith? Or would it strengthen it – reinforce his conviction that the devil was at large, and that he needed to tend his flock in order to help them stay vigilant and safe?

‘Apparently they just do daylight services here,’ he told Kennedy, ‘but the Mass calendar is posted on the boards both here and at the church in town.’

Kennedy cursed. ‘So anyone would be able to see the schedule, know when someone was here, or wasn’t?’

‘Exactly. Plenty of opportunities for someone to sneak a body on to the grounds unseen.’

‘So what do you reckon?’ Kennedy asked. ‘Think it could be some satanic cult, or weird shit like that?’

Chris wondered the same thing. Was there some religious significance to this particular murder? Or was it another in a recent succession of murders bizarrely similar in their ghoulishness?

‘Too early to say anything at the moment,’ he replied noncommittally.

Soon, the GFU crew arrived, and the detectives headed out of the vestry and back into the main church.

By the altar, Kennedy paused for a moment, his head down.

Chris stopped beside him, curious.  ‘What’s up? Have you got some of kind of thing against churches?’ he asked, amused.  ‘Some deep fear of religious iconography, or something?’

Kennedy turned and gave him a scathing look. ‘Me?  Nah.’  He grimaced. ‘But it’s Sunday and from the looks of things, it’s going to be a long oul day.’ He headed back down the aisle, Chris at his heels.

‘Yes, it’s Sunday, but why should that matter? You and I both know this gig’s a million miles from nine to five.’

His partner sighed heavily. ‘It’s just Josie always does a lovely roast beef with Yorkshire puddings, the whole works,’ he added, his tone mournful. ‘And I bloody hate missing Josie’s Sunday roast.’

––––––––

R
eilly went inside the church and made her way down the aisle to the transept.

Next to the pulpit was a tightly twisted spiral staircase that would be completely unacceptable under modern building codes. It led up the tower.

She studied it for a few moments, trying to ascertain if it had been used recently.

Henrietta had advised that the tower was rarely used, so by rights there should be a thick coating of dust, which would easily show up any footprints. Then again Reilly imagined that the older woman would be the type to make a mission of keeping the interior of the lovely little church spick and span.

Unfortunately.

Unable to find any sign of recent use, she took the steps and slowly ascended to the level of the thin, ornate wrought-iron gate that accessed the room at the top of the tower.

Sliding the heavy deadbolt back out of the frame, she stepped inside the tiny room. Immediately, the first thing that struck her was the smell, a heavy alkaline scent that was almost like cat pee or ... human, even?

She inhaled the air, letting the scent flow through her delicate nostrils, trying to catalogue it. Perfume she was good at; foul scents, not so good.

It was very heavy in ammonia, though, and did indeed smell like very strong urine. Actually ... Reilly paused and inhaled again, realizing that the smell put her in the mind of skunk spray. Skunk? Were there skunk in Ireland?

Taking out an evidence bag, she tried to pinpoint the area it seemed strongest, but it was impossible to tell. In any case, she swabbed a small area from the wall and then the ground, bagged them, and in addition picked up a sample of grit from the same area on the floor.

The tower, with its two battered old wooden slat windows, was completely empty, save for some pigeon droppings. As birds didn’t urinate, Reilly already knew the foul smell definitely wasn’t coming from them.

Moving tighter into the wall, she began stepping in concentric circles inwards, her gaze scanning the ground area. Then, her keen eye noticed some tiny bluish dots that were slightly incongruous amongst the grit and the droppings.

She pulled out her tweezers and, bending low, carefully lifted one up for inspection. With some idea of what it was, she held it to her nose, sniffed, and removed all doubt.

Rubber.

Reilly’s mind raced, wondering if this was of any significance. Had the killer dropped it? Probably not. Whoever had hoisted that poor man up into the tree and slashed open his torso surely wouldn’t have then gone to the trouble of coming all the way up here to watch him die.

Or would he?

She craned her neck, looking upwards into the gloom, then made her way to the window. As she did, she let out a breath.

There, framed perfectly in the opening as if it were a painting, was the hawthorn tree, the misfortunate victim dramatically hanging front and center.

Leaving little doubt in Reilly’s mind that such positioning was completely intentional.

It took a while, but eventually the local police managed to arrange for a mobile elevating platform to be sent to the site from the nearest town.

The ME, having repositioned the man’s innards as best she could, wrapped the mutilated body in the tarpaulin and, with the platform operator’s assistance, accompanied it down to the ground, where she could examine it more closely.

Reilly took a lint roller from her bag and rolled the victim’s clothes and hands. Then she concentrated her efforts around the perimeter of the tree, walking in concentric circles around the base amongst the humongous roots poking through the soil. Granted the victim was not a heavy man, but even so, it would have been no easy task to hoist a body, dead or alive, up onto the branches of a tree.

Reilly was looking for imprints from a ladder, or anything that might have been used for such a job. While the ground itself was wet, the immediate area beneath the tree was largely dry, mostly because the canopy of branches was so thick and spanned so widely.

She was unable to spot anything that remotely resembled ladder markings, but something irregular in the grass approaching the tree caught her eye. At first it looked like a track of some kind, perhaps a path worn through by a dog, or some wild animal.  But no, there were actually two matching indentations, consistent in width, about as narrow as the wheels of a bicycle. Bicycle tracks?

Taking out her camera, she shot the tracks from various angles.  Then, finding little else of interest beneath the tree, she picked up her kitbag and headed towards the platform, ready to take a closer look amongst the branches.

Kennedy was watching her. ‘No way you’d get me up on that rickety contraption in the midst of all them poison thorns.’