Mother of Demons (11 page)

Chapter Twenty-One

Clusky sheltered under a tree as he stood and waited for his dealer in the middle of Epping Forest. Not that the tree was making much difference. The rain was still pouring through the bare branches, drumming a tattoo on his crash helmet and running in rivulets down the Plexiglas visor.
Where the fuck is he?
he thought and checked his watch for the third time in the last three minutes.

He was in a clearing, the usual meeting place. He liked this spot because it was hidden from the pathways that walkers used, but was still accessible from the road by bike. The problem was that, because of the dense undergrowth and closely packed trees, it limited his ability to see if his contact was approaching. He pulled out his cell phone to call him, but there was no signal. He swore under his breath and rammed it back in his pocket. He’d give him another five minutes and then he’d go.

A twig snapped behind him and the undergrowth of ferns and bracken rustled. “About bloody time,” he said and turned, but there was no one there. Another twig snapped and more rustling. He spun around. “I’m here, you dickhead,” he said.

For a moment there was silence, broken only by birdsong, and then the undergrowth began to move, rippling as though something was moving through it. “Stop pissing around,” he yelled angrily. “I’m getting soaked here.”

And then he heard a low growl coming from somewhere ahead of him. There was an eerie whistle in the air and something smacked into the tree behind him and the bark exploded in a shower of splinters and moss.

He ducked. “Shit!”

Someone was shooting at him. But he hadn’t heard a gunshot. The growl sounded again, closer this time. He looked into the trees to see if he could see anyone targeting him, and a pair of red eyes glared back at him out of the shadows.

The eyes were unlike anything he had seen before. “Who’s there?” he yelled, an edge of panic to his voice. He looked to his Suzuki, a few yards away, resting on its stand, saddle and fuel tank beaded with rain. He made to run towards it but another whistle and explosion splintered the bark on the tree ahead of him, spinning him round, making him plunge deeper into the trees, away from the clearing, away from his bike, away from escape.

As he ran, the undergrowth around him erupted into life. He glanced to the side and saw the bracken moving as something pursued him. He caught a glimpse of something dark, possibly fur.

He swerved to the left to get away from it. More splinters of tree bark bursting out, close to his face, slicing and stinging, made him cry out and veer back onto his original track. His mind raced, desperately trying to get his bearings.

He had to find the road. In the forest he was an easy target for the things that were hunting him. He swerved again and screamed as something pierced his shoulder, causing a searing, white-hot pain that paralyzed his arm.

He looked down at it. There was a half-inch hole in his leather jacket and blood was pouring from it. He’d been hit.

“Leave me alone, you bastards!” he yelled, and then stopped dead as he saw what was standing in the undergrowth a few feet away from him.

Something huge, covered in thick, dark brown fur—a massive head with a yawning mouth filled with savage yellow teeth, and with glowing red eyes that glared at him ferociously.

He opened his mouth to scream again, not believing what his was seeing, but a matted-furred arm that ended in long, razor-sharp claws lashed out and disemboweled him with one stroke.

Clusky’s eyes widened as he stared down at the coils of white intestines spilling out of his ruined belly, and then his eyelids fluttered and closed.

He was dead before he hit the ground.

Susan walked into the incident room, holding a polystyrene cup of coffee. Gillian was by the board, staring at the photograph of Anton Markos that was pinned in the center. There were pen lines radiating out in a star shape, linking Markos to photographs of Alice Logan, Kerry Green and Finbar Clusky, a box containing the words CHILDREN OF HECATE? and another containing the word STRASSER.

“Does it make any sense to you, Gill?”

“No. You?”

“Not at all. Where’s DS Bartlett?”

“He and Brian have gone to pick up Clusky. They should be back soon.”

“Let me know when they get here. I’ll be in my office.”

She walked into her office, set her coffee cup down on the desk and picked up the phone. The phone on the other end of the line seemed to ring forever until an answer machine kicked in. She hated answer machines. When the beep sounded, she said, “Er, hello, Harry. It’s Susan…Sue. I just wanted to thank you again for last night. Er…perhaps I can return the favor sometime. Er…well, yes. Call me sometime. Bye.”

She put the phone down and swore at herself, furious.

“I sound like a bloody fifteen-year-old,” she said to the empty room. The worse thing was that she felt like a fifteen-year-old.

She had sworn off men since her marriage failed twelve years ago, and coped very nicely, thank you, without a partner or boyfriend cluttering up her life. Telling herself she was married to the job and actively chasing promotion sustained her during the dark times post divorce and for the years afterwards.

But for some reason, a rumpled Romeo entered her life and turned it on its head without making much effort to do so.

“It must be me,” she said. She was perimenopausal. Perhaps that was it. A sudden rush of hormones to the head.

She pulled her electronic cigarette from her bag, took two puffs and dropped it back. She wanted a
real
cigarette. “Well, if he can go without a drink, I can live without smoking,” she said.

There was a tap at the door and Gillian stuck her head into the room.

“They’re back. No Clusky though.”

Great, Susan thought. One day it would be nice if things went according to plan.

“No sign of him, guv,” Bartlett said. “His neighbor says he hasn’t seen Clusky or his bike for a couple of days. He rides a red Suzuki. Normally he leaves it chained up outside the flats. It’s not there now.”

“Okay, Jake. Put out an APB out on him. We need to talk to Mr. Clusky. What about his mate, Terry What’s-his-name?”

“Terry Butler. He says he hasn’t seen Clusky in weeks. He’s lying through his teeth. His girlfriend, Tracy Salmon, said that Terry told her he’d seen Clusky the night before last, and Clusky had given him the cold shoulder.”

“Have another word with him, Jake. See if you can’t persuade him to change his lying ways. Can the girl give us anything else?”

“I doubt it. She seems like a nice kid. Scared of her own shadow. What she’s doing with a maggot like Butler beats me.”

“Perhaps he’s got a big dick,” Susan said. “Sex can be a great enticement.”

Bartlett shook his head. “No. I don’t think so. Talking to her, I reckon she’s still a virgin.”

Susan looked at him askance. “How old is she?”

“Her ID card say’s she eighteen, but it’s a fake. I reckon you can knock two years off that.”

“A sixteen-year-old virgin, from around here? A rare bird indeed. She should be preserved in aspic. Lean on Butler. See if you can improve his memory.”

“Shall I pull him in?”

“Do you know where he works?”

“Randle’s in Wick Street, it’s a car repair and body shop. He’s an apprentice panel beater.”

“Go and pay him a visit there. Make sure his boss knows who you are and why you’re there. Mention Kerry Green again, loudly. It might persuade our Terry to be more forthcoming.”

“Mr. Bailey? It’s Richard Frost from the Mayberry Clinic. Still no news of Alice Logan, I’m afraid. I wondered if you’d had any luck tracing her.”

“Not so far,” Harry said.

“Shame,” Frost said. “I feel responsible. After all, she was in our charge here at the clinic when she walked out.”

Harry said nothing.

“About that other matter. Dr. Tayeb and Nurse Williams. The inquest is set for next Thursday, but I’ve been given a sneak peek at the postmortem results.”

“And?”

“I’m still not sure I should be passing this on,” Frost said hesitantly.

Harry was sure that Frost was
desperate
to pass it on. He wanted to share some of the responsibility.

“Would it help if I told you that the investigation into Alice Logan’s disappearance is now an official matter?”

“Really?” Frost said, grabbing the lifeline Harry was offering him.

“I work for Department 18. We are a branch of the government.”

“What, like MI5 or 6?”

“Something like that.”

“Well then, yes. Of course I should tell you.”

Harry could hear the relief in the man’s voice.

“Well, Dr. Tayeb. If you remember, I said it looked like she’d swallowed her own tongue?”

“I remember.”

“Well, she definitely choked that way. Her tongue shut off her airway, but the pathologist states that her tongue must have been physically forced down her throat by a third party.”

“And the nurse?”

“Her brain had been liquefied: nothing in her skull but gray sludge. I’ve never come across anything like it in my life. It’s very unsettling. I must admit this has shaken me to the core.”

“Yes,” Harry said. “I should imagine it has.”

“You say it’s official, government business. I don’t suppose you can tell me what’s going on.”

“I’m afraid that’s classified.”

“Yes, yes. Need to know. I understand.”

“Thank you for your indulgence, Dr. Frost. You’ve been most helpful. I’m sure your cooperation in this matter will be recognized. Meanwhile, if I get news of Alice Logan, I’ll make sure you’re informed.” He rang off and sat contemplating what he had just been told. This case was turning very ugly.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Mikey Gibson ran a stall in London’s Leather Lane Market, selling cheap, knockoff handbags and purses. He’d set up the stall early that morning as usual, and was now waiting patiently for the lunchtime trade: office workers and secretaries, seemingly eager to be parted from their hard-earned money in exchange for a fake Louis Vuitton or
Prada
accessory. He had the Smiths playing on his iPod and hummed along with
Meat Is Murder
as he adjusted his display.

“Hello, Mikey.”

He looked at the speaker: a young, pretty blonde girl who stood at his stall, turning a black and silver DKNY bag over and over in her hands. Pretty and ready to part with some cash. Christmas come early. He would have rubbed his hands together in anticipation of an easy sale, but didn’t want to appear too keen. She smiled at him and something registered in the back of his mind. “I know you, don’t I?”

“
Artemis.”

He blinked and adjusted focus, pulling the buds from his ears, leaving Morrissey to croon away in the distance. “Artemis, the goddess, that’s right. Gaff in Goswell Road. I remember. Artemis, how are you? You were high that night. Mind you, I was pretty bombed myself.”

“I tried to save them.”

“Who? Tried to save who?”

She dropped the bag back onto the stall. “The girls. I tried to save the girls, but I wasn’t well. And he…well, he was too powerful. But I’m better now, and he’s dead.”

Mikey looked at her. “Who’s dead? Erik?”

“Erik. Anton. It doesn’t matter now. He’s gone.”

“How did he die?”

“I killed him. I had to. He would have carried on.”

“Yeah, right.”
Still off her trolley
. Maybe Christmas would be delayed. “Do you want to buy a bag? Maybe a nice Prada purse.”

“You were cruel to me that night,” she said, her eyes dancing from side to side, the October breeze blowing through her hair, making it ripple. “You all were. Cruel.”

He remembered taunting her on the balcony, goading her to leap into space.

“Like I said, I was pretty bombed out myself,” he said, feeling a momentary pang of guilt. “Didn’t mean anything by it. Glad you’re all right now.”

She looked at him for what seemed an eternity, her cold blue eyes burning into his. Finally she tore her gaze away. It seemed to take a physical effort, and then she smiled. “Goodbye, Mikey,” she said and started to move away.

“Yeah, goodbye. See you around.” Two young women in sharp business suits were approaching the stall. Potential customers. “Ladies, how can you help me?” he called to them, flashing his best smile. They started to approach the stall.

“Mikey?”

He turned at the voice. The girl from the night in Clerkenwell was standing twenty yards away.

Alice, that was it. Alice, not Artemis. It was all coming back to him now.

She was standing stock-still in the road. One arm pointing at him, fist clenched, the other hooked behind her, and she had her head to one side, her eyes still focusing on him intently. And then the hand of her hooked arm twitched and something thudded into his chest.

A searing pain spread like a fire through his body. He looked down at the blood pouring from a hole in his Puffa jacket and then back at Alice, standing like a statue in that weird pose. Her hand twitched again and Mikey Gibson’s eye exploded in a shower of blood and jelly-like liquid. He toppled forwards onto the stall, scattering the bags and purses, and dripping red over the fake Louis Vuittons
.
One of the two office girls screamed; the other fainted. Alice dropped her pose and moved on through the market.

“
Ursus arctos
,” McBride said, a hint of pride in his voice.

“What?” Harry said.

“I just got the results back from London Zoo on the fur sample I found in the wounds on Anton Markos’s body, and they come from the species
Ursus arctos
. To you and me known as the brown bear.”

“Bear? What the hell is a brown bear doing in Barking?”

“I couldn’t possible speculate. Circuses can’t display animals anymore, so my best guess would be an escapee from a private zoo or collector.”

Harry brushed his fingers through his gray hair. “Well, I suppose that gives me food for thought,” he said.

“I should have spotted it immediately,” McBride said. “The size and spacing of the claw marks, and the ferocity of the assault. A classic bear attack really. You just don’t expect to find results like that on a body found in Essex. Is there anything else?”

Harry paused for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts. Something was nagging at the back of his mind, something from way back that was telling him that what he was being told was not as absurd as it seemed. He gathered himself.

“Yes, Duncan, there is. Was it you who performed autopsies on a doctor and nurse from a private nursing home in Bournemouth, the Mayberry Clinic? I was down there not long after the bodies were found, and they said a Home Office pathologist was on his way down from London to do the postmortem at Bournemouth General. Was it you?”

“Ah, no, that would be Charles. Charles Turner, my number two. I was away that day, visiting my mother at a sanatorium in Dulwich. I know the case though. I had dinner with Charles at his club two nights ago, and he was very agitated about it.

“Apparently, one of the women, the doctor I think, had her tongue driven back into her throat with considerable force, ripping the frenulum, the small fold of
mucous membrane
extending from the
floor of the mouth
to the midline of the underside of the tongue. The action blocked her trachea completely. She couldn’t breathe, so she suffocated.”

“And the nurse?”

“Ah, she was why Charles was so agitated. He opened her skull and couldn’t find a brain. Remember, the nurse had been walking and talking moments before, but all he found in the cranium was a slurry of brain matter and cerebrospinal fluid. He’d never seen anything like it before, and he can’t imagine what circumstances caused it. It’s a mystery that’s going to live with him for quite a while, I should imagine.”

“And you can’t explain it?”

“No. I’m very vaguely tempted to go for the hydrostatic shock theory—a wound, especially a gunshot—that can have a catastrophic effect on another part of the body. It’s a bit of a stretch. The theory is open to debate, and, if it were found to be the case, the wound would have to be pretty devastating to produce such damage to the brain. As I say, it’s only a theory, and not one I’ve set much store by. No, I think Charles is just going to have to live with the fact he will never get an answer to it.”

“Okay,” Harry said.

“Are the deaths of the doctor and nurse a department matter?”

“They’re connected to the case I’m working on,” Harry said.

“The bear attack and the ritual killing? Good God, man. Is nothing in your life straightforward?”

“I wish it were, Duncan. Sometimes I really wish it were.”

Harry hung up and called Violet. It was time to bring her up to speed.

“Do you think it’s possible that Markos did have powerful psychic gifts, and used those powers to kill the doctor and nurse, making it easy for Alice to get away from the clinic to be with him?” Violet said.

“I think it’s possible, yes. I’ve encountered worse in my time with the department. Anyway, you described him as pure evil at the very outset. You gave me the impression that Markos posed some sort of supernatural threat. It’s why I took the case on. Were you deliberately misleading me?”

There was silence at the other end of the line.

“Vi?”

He heard her draw in her breath.

“Harry, I was desperate to help her. Alice, to me, is the daughter I never had. I knew I couldn’t do this on my own. Even with Jason’s help, I would have struggled. I’m sorry, Harry but you were my last hope.”

“Forget about it,” Harry said. “As it turned out, the case is very much in the department’s domain.”

“So where do we go from here?” she said.

“I can’t answer that at the moment. I’m missing something. I feel that all the dots are there, but I just seem incapable of joining them up. I need some time to think this through. And I need to read up on a few things.”

“Do you want to use my library?”

“How’s your selection of books on Greek mythology?

“Fairly comprehensive.”

“Okay. I’ll call in later.”

“You can stay for tea and cake.”

“Yes,” Harry said. “I’d like that.”