‘These are the upcoming dates we may need to be concerned about,’ Eric Fisher said.
Heck and Andy Gregson regarded the picture boards that Fisher had assembled in the MIR. Previously they’d only glimpsed them, but now, having come in early this morning, they were able to assess them properly. The one on the right had been distracting enough, layered as it was with images of ritual slayings from throughout the historical past, but the one on the left was of more immediate importance.
Photos of church parades, children formed in choirs and Morris Men dancing had all been added to the pictures of the walking-days, fetes on village greens and so forth. Each had a label attached to it, and a date, alongside a typed-out précis of the event itself and the circumstances surrounding it. Despite the jollity on view, none of it made for easy reading. April alone boasted eighteen entries, such mystifying dates as Hocktide and Low Sunday figuring alongside the more traditional Easter and St George’s Day. There were similar treats in May: everyone knew about May Day, Empire Day and Whitsun, but who knew anything about Helston Flora or Royal Oak Day?
‘Never heard of half of these,’ Gregson commented.
‘That’s because we’re not a spiritual nation anymore,’ Fisher replied, handing out printed sheets to the various detectives who’d gathered around them. ‘When I was a lad, anything to do with the Church, we’d have a day off school for it. Used to call them “holy days of obligation”. Most folk have never heard of that now. But this is only scratching the surface, if I’m honest. There are local events – things they go big on in some parts of the country, which are ignored in others. Different kinds of celebrations. Some vary from parish to parish, never mind county to county. But religion is the underlying theme. All these special days once meant a lot more to people than they do now.’
‘What’s religious about Bonfire Night?’ Charlie Finnegan asked.
‘Nothing now,’ Heck replied, ‘but the original Gunpowder Plot was supposed to signal a Catholic uprising. Least that’s what I was always taught at school.’
‘Correct,’ Fisher said. ‘I’ve scrutinised these festivals a bit more carefully since we’ve been here. November 5 is an old Protestant celebration. It’s not seen that way now, except in places like Lewes in East Sussex, where papal effigies get burned. But that was its start point.’
‘Simplifies things, at least,’ Finnegan said. ‘We’re after a bunch of religious freaks.’
Heck looked doubtful. ‘Possibly, but which religion? Eric, didn’t we decide that some of these festivals were once pagan?’
Fisher nodded. ‘Christmas was the ancient Germanic Yuletide; Valentine’s Day was the Roman feast of Lupercalia. And that’s the story almost across the board. The things we do on these occasions now are just remnants of older, more elaborate ceremonies.’
‘And were they marked with human sacrifices?’ Shawna McCluskey asked.
Fisher pulled a face. ‘Some of them were, sometimes …’
‘It doesn’t pan out,’ Gary Quinnell argued. ‘Celebrating Christian feasts with vicious murders, even celebrating pagan feasts with murder – that was centuries and centuries ago. Modern Wiccans are like us; they don’t believe in shedding blood. On top of that, these special days are all different. Most of them have no connection with each other in terms of origin or activity. There’s no recognisable theology underlying any of this. None that makes sense to me.’
‘Well, whoever they are, with so many special days to pick from, they could strike at any time,’ Fisher said.
‘They have to plan though, don’t they?’ Shawna replied. ‘They can’t just pick dates off a calendar at random.’
‘They’ve planned this whole thing already,’ Heck said. ‘Months ago, maybe years.’
They all pondered that – and were demoralised by it. The patience required to hatch and evolve such a complex scheme suggested a mindset that was not just cold, calculating and patient – infinitely patient – but obsessive to the point of madness. As Heck stared at the joyful images – top-hatted ‘tuttimen’ carrying poles decorated with spring flowers, a foliage-covered Jack-in-the-Green parading through a village square with hordes of laughing children in pursuit – it was still difficult to imagine that this whole thing was nothing more than a ghoulish but ultimately meaningless game.
‘Suppose they’re not celebrating these feast days,’ Shawna suddenly said. ‘Suppose they’re desecrating them.’
Everyone glanced around at her.
‘Don’t you think?’ she added, looking amazed that she’d come up with such an idea. ‘They’re not just mocking them, they’re ruining them forever.’
‘You mean like … an anti-religious group?’ Quinnell said. ‘Like a bunch of, I dunno … militant atheists, or something?’
Finnegan chuckled. ‘Who was it mentioned upsetting the trendy left?’
‘Mockery,’ Heck said thoughtfully. ‘Is all this just a massive piss-take?’
‘Whatever these nutters’ motivations, they are bloody well organised,’ Fisher said. ‘The way they’re selecting victims, luring them into traps, nabbing them. They’re so well organised it wouldn’t surprise me if they aren’t following the investigation in order to improvise … in case we get too close.’
‘Useful stuff,’ came Gemma’s voice. She’d approached from her office and was standing close by, pen in hand. ‘And sound advice. Even more of a reason not to tell tales out of school. In the meantime, Heck … a word please.’
Heck followed her into her office, dragging off his jacket. DCI Garrickson was already in there, stripped to his shirt-sleeves and leafing through a pile of reports. He barely grunted as Heck said ‘Morning’ to him. Gemma slid back behind her desk, nodding at Heck to pull up a chair. He did so.
‘Nothing useful from the gang-intervention units, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘I’ve been in touch with Merseyside, GMP and West Yorkshire. None of them seem to think these types of crimes are a fit for any of the groups they monitor.’
Heck shrugged. ‘No surprise really. This whole case reveals an extreme level of deviancy … I’ve said all along this isn’t the work of everyday criminals.’
Garrickson groaned. ‘Not this psycho-babble again. Look … if we’re not looking for criminals, who are we looking for?’
‘All I can tell you, sir, is that this is something very different from the norm. And very difficult to explain, especially as there’s no obvious gain for those involved.’
‘This thrill-kill business?’ Garrickson sounded unimpressed. ‘This showmanship thing?’
Heck nodded. ‘That’s one explanation. Religious fanaticism might be another, but personally I doubt that one. Shawna’s come up with a neat idea. She thinks we’re looking at deliberate desecrations. You know, vicious acts designed to hurt and upset the maximum number of people. That would certainly match the narcissist profile.’
‘A narcissist thrill-killer,’ Gemma mused. ‘They tend to be individuals.’
‘One individual could be controlling the others,’ Heck replied. ‘A master manipulator, who’s surrounded himself with misfits, outcasts … naïve types who’ll follow any orders.’
‘As in a cult?’ she wondered.
‘The more I think about it, the more that seems possible,’ Heck said. ‘I’m not sure it’s a very big group, though. Can’t be more than a handful of members.’
Garrickson regarded him with fascination. ‘You’ve really hit the speculation button, haven’t you?’
‘Well, the more heinous the crime, sir, the harder it is to get people to participate …’
‘I’m perfectly aware of that. I just don’t know how we’ve got from not knowing anything to putting APBs out on the Manson family …’
Shawna barged in. ‘Sorry, ma’am. But you’ll want to see this email.’
Gemma took a couple of print-outs from her and read them carefully – not once but twice. Then she placed them on the desk and glanced up. ‘The lab has managed to lift a DNA profile from the hair found under Ernest Shapiro’s fingernails. What’s more, we’ve got a positive hit on it. It belongs to a certain Cameron Boyd of Longsight, Manchester … thirty-three years old and well known. Boyd has form for robbery, car-jacking, GBH and rape.’
‘They used to call him “Cam the Spike”,’ Shawna said. ‘Because his weapon of choice was a sharpened screwdriver.’
Garrickson looked delighted. ‘That’s what I call a lead! We should pick him up now, give him the third degree!’
Heck took one of the print-outs from the desk.
‘Known associates?’ Gemma asked Shawna.
‘Take your pick, ma’am. He’s into everything …’
‘Serial murder?’ Heck wondered.
‘Well … not up till now,’ Shawna replied. ‘But he’s a player. Surely you can see that?’
‘Course … but it’s all commonplace stuff. Car-jacking, robbery.’
‘Rape?’ Shawna said.
Heck tapped the print-out. ‘According to this, he was convicted of raping his girlfriend. Doesn’t make him a nice guy, but it doesn’t make him a night-stalker either.’
‘What are you suggesting?’ Garrickson asked.
‘I don’t know.’ Heck focused on Gemma. ‘It’s a development, I’m not denying it … it needs checking. But ma’am, if we were chasing run-of-the-mill offenders, wouldn’t our grasses have tipped us some kind of wink by now? Look at Boyd’s sheet – he left school at sixteen, having spent most of his time there excluded. He’s not just a scrote; he’s as thick as pigshit. Would he have the first idea how to affect a proper crucifixion?’
‘All he’d have to do is watch a movie,’ Garrickson said.
‘Not according to Professor Fillingham.’
‘Could he not just be an assistant?’ Shawna said. ‘Hired muscle maybe?’
Heck blew out a long breath. ‘Could be, I suppose …’
Garrickson chuckled. ‘You suppose? That’s big of you.’
Heck turned back to Gemma. ‘Ma’am, it’s only a gut feeling, but I thought we’d be looking for more educated suspects. I know it seems unlikely, but a writer, a historian …’
‘Heck,’ she said, ‘are you seriously saying you want me to ignore a DNA lead?’
‘No …’ Belatedly, Heck realised that he was asking her to accept the impossible. Not only that, he was asking it of himself. You couldn’t really argue with DNA. Cameron Boyd had to be involved in this at some level. Possibly, like Shawna suggested, as an enforcer. But still there was that element of doubt. ‘Look, ma’am … while you lot are fixed on Boyd, why not let me make a sweep of all the college faculties in the Merseyside and Greater Manchester areas? Sixth form and up? See if I uncover anything.’
‘On your own?’ Gemma said. ‘You know how many that’s likely to be?’
‘I’ll have Andy Gregson with me.’
Garrickson pushed himself back from the desk and stood up. ‘So first it was Charles Manson, and now it’s the Nutty Professor … is that right?’
‘Not specifically,’ Heck said.
Garrickson rounded on Gemma. ‘This is bullshit, ma’am. Your Minister Without Portfolio wants to go off on his own again. We’ll end up with as big a body count as we had during the Nice Guys enquiry.’
Heck was about to respond to that by telling the DCI where he could shove his flash suits and prissy silk handkerchiefs, but Gemma cut him off.
‘Heck!’ she warned. Heck glanced at her and shut his mouth. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I can see you’ve given this a lot of thought, but I agree with Mike. We can’t spare you, let alone you and Gregson. We’re working under a time-limit. It could only be a day or so before these maniacs strike again. So for the moment we need to concentrate on hard evidence, not theory.’
‘Or wild fantasy,’ Garrickson added.
Heck knew that he’d lost the argument, and probably with good reason. They were still under-strength; that was a fact. And anyway, as soon as DNA leads came in, rival theories became insignificant. At the end of the day, all he’d offered was conjecture – meanwhile, the killers’ clock was ticking. They needed to prioritise.
There was a knock at the door and Gary Quinnell entered. ‘Sorry to interrupt, ma’am … but we’ve just had a call from SOCO. The print lifted from the book of matches in the burned wagon has been identified.’ He checked the paperwork in his ham-fist before handing it over. ‘Belongs to one Terry Mullany … from Manchester.’
Shawna half-gasped. ‘Ma’am … Mullany’s another Longsight criminal! He’s on the list as a known associate of Cameron Boyd!’
Garrickson slapped the desk. ‘That settles it.’
‘Possibly.’ Gemma maintained her cool. ‘But we’re not moving on them yet.’ She called out: ‘DS Fisher … can I have you in here please!’
Eric Fisher ambled in. ‘Ma’am.’
‘Two things,’ she said. ‘First of all, anything on the CCTV from the lorry park in Longsight where the burned Scania was stolen?’
‘No useable images, ma’am. But other footage from cameras between Longsight and Manor Hill is still being examined.’
‘Okay, good. Secondly, what’s the next special day coming up?’
‘Well … there’s all sorts, ma’am. The Queen’s birthday might be worth thinking about.’
‘What date is that?’ Garrickson asked.
‘April 21,’ Fisher replied. ‘It’s not got any underlying religious significance of course, but it’s well known.’
‘It’s not that big a deal surely?’ Quinnell said.
‘Does it need to be?’ Shawna wondered.
‘We don’t know,’ Gemma said. ‘Not enough to make assumptions either way.’ She stood up. ‘Okay, here’s the plan … Mike, draw up a rota. I want two-man teams working around the clock, obbing every move these two bastards make, up until and if necessary beyond April 21.’
Garrickson nodded. ‘Ma’am.’
‘Eric … pull off everything you can on these two.’ She handed over the paperwork for Boyd and Mullany. ‘They’re now our prime suspects. I want to know where they’ve been living, what they’ve been up to, who they’ve been seen with … the works!’
Fisher grabbed the documents and withdrew.
Gemma circled her desk with the air of someone who at last had a target to aim for. ‘Heck … that print was an excellent spot. Well done.’
He nodded.
‘Shawna, come with me. Did you have dealings with Boyd and Mullany when you were up in Manchester?’
‘No … after my time, ma’am. But I can speak to some of the lads up there who will have done …’ Shawna’s voice faded as she and Quinnell followed Gemma outside.
Heck went out after them, but diverted to the vending machine in the corner. Claire was already in attendance there, blowing the froth off a beaker of steaming cappuccino.
‘Kitchen kettle kaput?’ he asked.
‘Oh, hi,’ she replied. ‘No it isn’t, but that instant stuff in there is so vile. Not that I’m sure this’ll be much better.’ She risked a sip and promptly pulled a face.
Heck smiled and got himself a tea.
‘I’ve just seen your car,’ she said. ‘What happened?’
‘Ah, that …’ He tried to laugh. ‘On-the-job wear and tear.’
‘Is it drivable?’
‘Not legally. Least, Gemma won’t let me take it out. Borrowed another from the local CID pool. Volkswagen Golf. About a thousand years old. No matter what, I always end up driving a shed. How are you bearing up, anyway?’
‘No problem,’ she said with a wry smile. ‘Certainly being kept on my toes. I got in this morning to find eighty-five messages on the answering machine. One of them was from a TV documentary maker. He was wondering how close we are to wrapping this thing, as he’s planning a new film about torture-killers, and he’d like to include “the Crucifier” – his choice of name, not mine – at the top of the show.’
Heck snorted. ‘Murder groupies. That’s something else you’ll need to get used to.’
‘I doubt they’d be so keen if we stuck them face-to-face with the real thing.’
‘I’m not so sure, to be honest.’ Heck swigged his tea, and tossed the empty beaker into the nearest bin. ‘Look, I’ve gotta go … we’ve got some new leads.’
‘Heck,’ she said, as he moved away. ‘Thanks.’
He glanced back. ‘What for?’
‘Everything … being a mate, trying to gee me up.’
‘We all need a slap on the back now and then.’
She nodded and smiled, but he couldn’t help noticing that she already looked sallow-faced, tired – and it wasn’t yet mid-morning.