Relics (26 page)

‘Each Celtic tribe worshipped its own individual god or goddess,’ Kim told him. ‘For instance, Maponus was a Northern God, but the lord of them all was Dagda. He was the most powerful, the most feared. Supposedly grotesque to look at. He’s described as an immense figure with incredible powers.’

‘What about the other name?’ the inspector said, pointing to one which was underlined further down the page.

Morrigan, the Queen of Demons, Dagda’s mate in fertility rituals. She was also known as
Nemain
which means panic, or
Badb Catha
, the raven of battle. In some ways, thought to be as powerful as Dagda himself.’ She looked down at her own scribblings.

WHEN COMES THE SEASON OF COLD THEN COMES DAGDA UNLESS THEY ARE WILLING TO OFFER TO HIM THE YOUNG OF THEIR TÚATH.

‘The Celtic year was divided into two halves,’ Kim said. ‘The season of warmth and the season of cold, basically summer and winter. They had no concept of spring and autumn, only that there was one time of the year for growing crops and another for storing them.’ She sighed. ‘But don’t ask me how all that ties in with the murders.’

Wallace shrugged, sipping at his coffee, looking down at the photos of the murder victims spread out on the table in front of Kim. The most recent one showed the butchered remains of James Cutler. His body had been flayed, his eyes torn from their sockets, his stomach cavity almost emptied. Beside him lay the final abomination.

Three lengths of intestine used to form a capital letter I.

The clock on the mantelpiece struck one a.m. and Wallace rubbed his face with one hand, simultaneously stifling a yawn. He had driven to Kim’s house after leaving the scene of Cutler’s murder, returning quickly to the police station to collect the photos. That had been three hours ago. He stretched and looked across at Kim, who was dressed only in a short house-coat, her slender legs drawn up beneath her. He did not drop his gaze when he saw her look back at him.

‘You look exhausted, Steve,’ she told him, brushing a stray hair from his forehead. As she withdrew her hand he held it and kissed her slender fingers. She responded by moving closer, snaking one hand around the back of his head, pulling him to her as they kissed.

The scream which echoed through the house caused them both to gasp aloud.

It came from upstairs.

From Clare’s room.

Kim leapt to her feet and dashed for the stairs taking them two at a time in her haste. Wallace was right behind her, the scream still drumming in his ears.

They reached the landing and he followed as she pushed open the door of her daughter’s room and hurried in.

‘Oh God,’ Kim gasped as Wallace joined her and they both stood gazing down at the girl.

Clare was lying spreadeagled on the bed, the covers thrown off in an untidy heap. Her head was moving slowly from side to side, her lips fluttering constantly, expelling a series of low mutterings. Her eyes, though, were closed tightly.

Kim moved forward but Wallace stepped in front of her.

‘Don’t wake her,’ he said, seeing that the girl was obviously still asleep. He picked up the covers and laid them gently back on the bed, moving closer to the sleeping girl. Her entire body was quivering gently, as if a mild electric shock were passing through it. Kim crouched beside the bed, touching her daughter’s hand, feeling how cold the skin was despite the thin film of perspiration which covered her face, matting her hair across her forehead and beading into minute crystal droplets on her arms.

The low whispering continued, like some kind of muted litany, the same mumblings repeated over and over again as the girl’s head moved from side to side.

‘This happened to her once before,’ said Kim, anxiety etched on her face. ‘It must be another nightmare.’ She bent close to her daughter’s face, brushing a strand of hair away. As she did so, she realized that it wasn’t a string of words which Clare was mouthing. It was one single word. Kim strained her ears to pick it out.

‘Can you understand what she’s saying?’ Wallace asked.

Kim merely raised one hand to silence him, the word now becoming more distinct.

It sounded like steam escaping as Clare mouthed that one word over and over again.

‘
Samain. Samain. Samain
.’

Kim frowned, unsure at first if she had heard right, but Clare continued and there was no mistaking the word.

Wallace saw the look of concern on Kim’s face.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘
Samain. Samain. Samain
,’ Clare breathed, more insistently now.

The sound stopped abruptly. In the silence they both heard the girl’s breathing return to a semblance of normality. The rigidity in her limbs seemed to disappear and she curled up into a ball beneath the covers. Kim sat on the edge of the bed, one hand resting on her daughter’s shoulder, her eyes never leaving the girl.

‘I’ll sit with her for a while, Steve,’ she said softly.

Wallace nodded and walked slowly from the room. Kim heard his footfalls on the stairs as he descended. From the kitchen she heard the sound of the kettle being filled.

Clare continued to sleep peacefully.

Kim found that it was she who was quivering now.

‘Is she all right?’ Wallace asked as Kim entered the sitting room, closing the door behind her.

She nodded and sat down beside him on the sofa, gratefully accepting the mug of coffee which he handed to her. A heavy silence settled over them, finally broken by Wallace.

‘What was she saying, Kim? That word, you seemed to recognize it,’ he said.

She nodded slowly, her eyes drawn towards the photos of the murder victims before her. Kim put down her cup, her own breathing now becoming more rapid. She looked at each of the photos that showed the letters which had been formed from lengths of bleeding intestines. She pulled a notebook towards her, one eye on the grisly photos, and said, ‘When the letters the killer left behind are placed in the correct order they do make a word.’

Wallace watched as she wrote down in block letters:

SAMAIN

‘Samain,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s a Celtic word. It means the end of summer. The Celts held a great festival to mark its ending.’

The inspector swallowed hard.

‘Is there any way Clare would know that word?’ he asked. ‘Could she have seen it written in one of your notebooks?’

‘It’s possible, I suppose,’ Kim said, her brow furrowed. ‘That’s what the writing on the stone tablets must refer to: “When comes the time. Time of cold. Time of Samain.” Whoever carved those tablets was a very powerful Druid. He claims to have had power over Dagda. “When comes the season of cold then comes Dagda,” ’ she re-read.

‘So what happened at Samain?’ Wallace asked.

‘In order to ensure that their crops would grow in the coming year, the Druids would sacrifice children to Dagda. It was like a kind of fertility rite but also a means of appeasement to prevent Dagda from rising and entering this world. It was done every year.’ She pointed to a line of the transcript.

ONCE RISEN HE CANNOT BE STOPPED. ONLY THE OFFERING OF THE YOUNG WILL PREVENT HIS COMING

‘Steve, don’t you see? The children’s skulls that we found in that underground chamber must have belonged to sacrificial victims killed in the name of Dagda, to prevent him from rising. Every one of those children had been decapitated and the eyes gouged out. It was part of the ritual. Except that the carbon-dating tests I ran on the skulls showed that not all of them came from the same period. They weren’t all Celtic sacrifices. One of them belonged to a child who was murdered in 1823. Other people, in the past, have found those tablets and deciphered them. The knowledge has been passed down through the ages, the superstition continued for thousands of years. Right up until 1823 when that last child was murdered.’

Wallace felt a chill envelop him.

‘Children must have been sacrificed on that same spot for thousands of years. Since 1,000 B.C. that site had been used for the ritual murder of children,’ Kim continued.

‘Was it always children?’ the inspector asked.

‘Young children. They would be killed on the night of Samain. Usually three at a time because three was a mystical number to the Celts. How many children have been kidnapped from Longfield?’

Wallace stiffened.

‘Three,’ he said quietly. ‘When was Samain? The date?’

‘October 31st,’ she told him.

‘Christ, that’s tomorrow,’ said Wallace. ‘October 31st. Halloween.’

‘The name changed but the festival has persisted in different forms,’ Kim told him. ‘The early Christians called it Hallowmas. Then in the Middle Ages, November the 1st was consecrated as All Saint’s Day so the night before became All Hallow Even. Over the years it was shortened to Halloween.’

‘The kidnapper must have some knowledge of all this,’ Wallace said, agitatedly.

‘When you were at the museum you were reading up on witchcraft,’ she reminded him. ‘Halloween is the most important time of the witches’ year too.’

Wallace nodded, remembering the butchered animals that had been found in the wood near Dexter Grange. His gaze strayed to the photos of the murder victims, slaughtered in a similar, though even more horrendous fashion. But one question plagued his mind.

‘Why would the killer spell out the word?’ he mused, looking at the pictures. There was a heavy silence.

‘The three kids that have been kidnapped,’ he continued, ‘obviously whoever’s got them is going to use them as sacrifices tomorrow night.’ He looked at Kim. ‘Charles Cooper would know about this ritual, wouldn’t he?
And
he had it in for Cutler and the others that were killed.’

‘You could say the same about anyone who was part of the archaeological team on that dig,’ she told him. ‘They all had a grievance against Cutler.’

‘Maybe,’ he said, unconvinced. ‘But three kids are going to be murdered tomorrow night unless I find out who’s got them. I’ve got to concentrate on the likeliest suspects first.’

‘But what if the legends about Dagda are true?’

‘Kim, you’re not serious?’ he snorted.

‘A lot of people
have
been serious about this over the past few thousand years. Serious or frightened enough to murder children to prevent unleashing this . . . evil, whatever it is.’

‘So you think I should let the kids die?’

She lowered her head.

‘I’ve got to find them.’

Kim gripped his hand.

‘Do you have to leave tonight?’ she wanted to know. He heard the anxiety in her voice.

He leant forward and kissed her lightly on the lips.

‘No,’ he said softly, pulling her closer, but as she wrapped her arms around him he glanced at the table once more. At the sentence from the transcript which made him shudder:

WHEN COMES THE SEASON OF COLD THEN COMES DAGDA UNLESS THEY ARE WILLING TO OFFER HIM THE YOUNG. . .

The policeman slammed the knocker down three times and stepped back, waiting for Charles Cooper to open the door.

There was no response.

Wallace knocked again.

Still no answer.

He pushed open the letter box and peered through. It looked dark inside the hallway. He called the archaeologist’s name, then wandered halfway back down the path, glancing up at the bedroom window. The curtains were open.

The inspector spotted a gate which he guessed led around to the back of the house. It was flanked on one side by the house itself, on the other by a high privet hedge, now leafless and bare. Through it, Wallace could see the woman next door peering curiously at him, a yard broom held in her hands.

‘You looking for Mr Cooper?’ she called.

‘Yes,’ Wallace replied, tersely, without looking at her. He reached the back of the house, and cupping one hand over his eyes, peered through the kitchen window.

The place certainly looked empty.

‘You a friend of his?’ the woman asked.

‘You could say that,’ Wallace told her, knocking on the back door. ‘Have you seen him about today?’

‘No, but then I don’t see him much anyhow.’

‘Terrific,’ murmured Wallace and made his way back to the waiting Sierra. He picked up the handset and flicked it on.

‘This is Wallace. I want a car sent to 12 Elm Street now.’

‘Anything wrong, guv?’ asked Dayton at the other end.

‘I don’t know. Yet. Look, when the car arrives I just want the blokes in it to watch the house. But if Charles Cooper shows up I want him pulled, got it?

‘What’s the charger?’Dayton wanted to know.

Wallace sucked in an impatient breath.

‘Indecent exposure,’ he snapped. ‘I don’t give a toss what they use. I just want Cooper brought in for questioning. Over and out.’ He replaced his handset before the sergeant had a chance to reply. Wallace sat looking at the house for a moment longer, then started his engine and drove off.

It was 10:56 a.m.

As Wallace guided the Sierra through the gateway which led up to Dexter Grange he peered through the windscreen towards the gaunt edifice as if looking for signs of movement within the house.

The gravel of the driveway crunched loudly beneath the wheels of the car as he swung it around before the imposing structure. He got out of the vehicle and stood looking up at the house for a moment before striding up to the front door. He banged loudly three times.

No answer.

Muttering to himself, Wallace walked back to the car and pressed hard on the hooter, keeping his hand there until even
he
could stand the strident wail no longer. He then hurried back to the front door and banged again.

There was still no reply.

‘Shit,’ he murmured, wandering past the large windows which led into the library, the study, the lounge. He reached the side of the house and a set of French doors. The inspector hesitated a moment, and then, cupping one hand over his eyes, he peered in through the glass. Nothing moved inside the room. The policeman took off his jacket and wrapped it around his fist and lower arm. With one swift punch, he stove in a panel of glass close to the door handle. The glass shattered loudly, small shards spraying into the room. Wallace snaked a hand through, careful not to cut himself, twisted the handle and let himself in.