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Barking, London, UK
30th of June, 12:45 p.m. (GMT+1)
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Wilson’s blue Vauxhall Corsa buzzed south along the A406; he had a one o’clock appointment with Gemma Green, and a traffic accident had put him behind his normally well-padded arrival time. The compact car weaved in and out of traffic in hopes of regaining a few extra minutes from the time he lost due to rubbernecking drivers.
His day had started slow. After a busy day yesterday, Wilson had every intention of enjoying a lazy Sunday morning lie in. His corner room was spared direct morning sunlight, and he had the foresight to pull down the window shades before turning in for the night.
Consequently, his phone had roused him from his sleep with a message from the Salt Mine, only just beating the church bells ringing for service. He had hoped it was word from Chloe and Dot on the signature, but alas, it was additional background information for his current Warwick alias that the Mine had spun to Green’s manager, Alistair Thumbold.
Thumbold and Green had been told Warwick was a columnist from the American branch of the Institute of Tradition, and that his interest in her story was driven by the popularity of A Bump in the Night stateside. It had taken two days of negotiations, but the thousand-pound payment they’d offered eventually eased any concerns the two Brits may have had about his authenticity.
It wasn’t the first time his Institute of Tradition alias had proved useful. The Institute was a worldwide organization with at least one branch on every continent. Its stated mission was documenting and preserving the local traditions of various peoples and places within their respective geographic domains. Collectively, they produced an English-language quarterly named The Way Things Were. Every issue had at least one story from each continent, and existed solely to provide cover for agents who needed a quick reason to start asking questions.
After fully waking, Wilson had spent what remained of the morning eating a late breakfast and going back over the collection of media coverage the Mine had gathered for him. The first thing he noticed was the lack of face-to-face interviews on television or the internet—either Gemma Green wasn’t that famous, or the story wasn’t sensational enough for mass consumption.
Reading through the different tabloids, Wilson had a basic understanding of the event as retold by the actress. Green had returned to her room after a long night shoot, changed, and gotten into bed. Just as she was falling asleep, the covers were pulled over her head and she was beaten, suffering dozens of blows in quick succession that left dark bruises across her back and torso. The covers then flew off her bed, and she felt like she was being attacked by some type of sharp instrument. The images were shocking—as tabloid pictures tend to be. Her entire back was covered with bruises, with scratch marks all over her body, particularly around her neck and waist. Whatever was attacking Green was interrupted by one of the A Bump in the Night’s crew, who had knocked down her door once he heard her screaming. Afterward, Green had been taken to the Chiltern Hospital for treatment.
Wilson mulled the information over in his head as he pulled off the A406 via the Barking exit—the UK had the best place names in the world—and followed his phone’s GPS to his destination with five minutes to spare. He hated being late, and thanked his luck for the lone open parking space on the one-way lane of row houses. He quickly reminded himself of who he was supposed to be before exiting the vehicle and hustling to Green’s door.
His solid knock was opened almost immediately, which suggested to Wilson that his approach had been observed. On the other side was a remarkably beautiful young woman who Wilson recognized as Gemma Green from his files. When her manager had called her this morning, Gemma had been put out by the short notice, but she was a professional. A Sunday afternoon interview? As she did her makeup and dressed with deliberate care, she considered the unusualness of the request. She had selected something casual that brought attention to her assets, and chose subtle makeup that highlighted her natural beauty. “Mr. Warwick?” she asked, full well knowing the answer.
Wilson extended his hand. “Yes. Please call me Damon. So nice to meet you, Ms. Green.” She quickly accepted it and Wilson noted that her hand was smooth and soft, perhaps even a bit greasy, as if she’d just moisturized and had yet to absorb the entire product. Despite the transferred lingering scent of lilac honeysuckle, Wilson fought the urge to wipe his hand on his pants after they broke contact.
“Call me Gemma,” she greeted him and motioned for him to enter. Her house had that recently cleaned look—roughshod attempts at tidying so the piles of junk looked more like eclectic collections, and a slapdash dusting done in a hurry with lines showing how things had been dusted around instead of removed and dusted under. The decor had a decidedly inspirational theme. There were small little hangings throughout the front entrance and sitting room: live, laugh, love and live out loud. His favorite tromp through banality hung on a wooden frame over the brick fireplace: Life is not measured by the breaths you take, but by the moments that take your breath away.
Wilson declined the inevitable offer of tea and after a few pleasantries, he got to the point, “Gemma, the Institute has a real interest in any contact with the supernatural, and we think your experience could be very enlightening for our readers. I’ve read what others reporters have written, but I would really like to hear it in your own words.”
Green softened at his tone; the media had treated her badly about the whole thing, accusing her of lying or attention seeking. It was refreshing to have someone simply believe her and want to listen to her; he hadn’t even ogled her on the sly once—and she knew when she was being checked out. “Well, it was just a normal night, you know? You’re familiar with the show, so you know how they split up into groups and investigate various areas, right? Nothing much happened while we wandered about, and I eventually went to bed. That’s where it happened.
“It all happened so fast. I was nearly asleep when the covers were slammed over my head and I was held down and beaten. It was so scary!” Her face screwed up, but she quickly turned away from Wilson and stood up, pulling off her top without a hint of self-consciousness. The smooth skin of her back was a mottled mess of bruises from deep purples to sallow yellows. The scratches, while numerous, were mostly superficial—more in line with a very angry house cat than those of a larger animal—but there were a few deeper ones.
“Jesus, that’s bad!” Wilson exaggerated for her benefit.
“I know, right?” She looked over her shoulder. “Do you want to take some pictures?”
There was little doubt in Wilson’s mind that Ms. Green was performing for him, but it was difficult to discern just how much of this display was part of her processing recent events. He was hardly impressed by the damage, given the collection of scars he bore, but he decided to give her the benefit of the doubt—people dealt with trauma in different ways.
Wilson pulled out his phone and started snapping photos, taking full-body shots as well as close ups. Once she heard his phone’s camera shutter, Gemma turned around so he could capture the injuries on her sides and front.
Wilson noticed the circumferential pattern around her midsection. “I thought you were lying in bed...how did you get scratches all around your waist?”
“I have no idea,” Green replied. “Everything happened in the blink of an eye, like less than a minute, and it was dark—just the light from under the door and the clock.” She marveled at how he was definitely not looking at her breasts.
Wilson nodded and continued snapping photos, especially those circumscribing her neck and deltoids, which appeared worse than those on her torso, “And all the way around the shoulders?”
Green raised her arms. “Even in my armpits. You have any idea how painful that is?”
“I can only imagine,” he responded. “Did the cops take a statement from you?”
“They did, but they didn’t believe me,” she decried petulantly. “They think this was all faked for publicity for the show.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Wilson feigned indignation. “The amount of time it would have taken you to stage this, the amount of pain you would have to have gone through....it doesn’t make sense.”
“Precisely!”
After a few final snaps, Wilson said, “I think I have all the photos I need.”
Green threw her shirt on with a quick motion, perplexed at this strange little man in her living room. “You know, the weirdest part was that there was no blood on the sheets. I still don’t understand how that happened. You saw all those scratches; they look a lot better now, but I was a bloody mess that night. That was the reason they took me to the hospital—I was bleeding everywhere. How could none of it have gotten on the bed?”
Wilson didn’t have an adequate response to the question and gave a baffled shrug. He understood why the police questioned the veracity of her story—the physical evidence didn’t match her account, none of the scratches were deep enough to require stitches, and despite the thorough beating on her torso, there was no damage to her face—but he saw little to be gained in pointing that out to the actress.
Instead, he steered the interview forward, gathering the bits of information he would need to streamline his investigation and to sell his cover. “So, Gemma, it’s obvious you were attacked by some supernatural force. We at the Institute of Tradition would love to tell your story, but we’ll need a few more details about yourself to help paint the full picture for our readers.”
****
The rest of the interview took about two hours. By the end, he knew everything he’d ever wanted to know about Ms. Gemma Green, but most importantly, he knew her room number at the Great Missenden Abbey the night of the attack. He was looking up the phone number for the abbey when his phone rang; the call was identified as Vivienne Clark. “This is Damon Warwick,” he answered.
“Damon, I hate to bother you, but I think I have something you’d like to see,” she spoke warily.
“Okay,” Wilson replied. “I’m in London right now, but I can be at your place in about an hour.”
“I’m not at home,” she qualified. “I’m in a fabric store called Shear Panic, on High Street. A friend of mine runs the store, and her security cameras caught something strange about the murder.” She lowered her voice to almost a whisper, “The police were just here.”
“Perfect! I’ll be there in an hour,” Wilson said enthusiastically. They ended the conversation, and he called Great Missenden Abbey to book a room for the night. A quick search found the store’s address, which he entered into the phone’s GPS before starting up the Vauxhall. Wilson darted his blue rental westward through light traffic, keeping his driving just on the edges of legal, all the while his mind raced.
He wished he could work with local law enforcement on the murder, but he was already here as Damon Warwick of the Institute, and DCI Jones knew him as David Wilson of Interpol. Having the Salt Mine fabricate a story that would be consistent with both would not be impossible, if absolutely necessary, but he’d rather not draw attention to himself. Still, the prospect of getting his hands on some hard evidence was a step forward.
Wilson found the store with ease, but parking on High Street, even on a Sunday, was more challenging. He parked a few blocks away and enjoyed the short stroll on another beautiful summer’s day, soaking in the sun before entering Shear Panic. A high-pitched ding of an electronic doorbell sounded on his entry, and Wilson took in his surroundings.
Every surface was covered with textiles of one sort or another. One whole wall was covered in cubbies packed with a rainbow of yarn, from the finest fingering, past worsted weight, and straight into the thick chunky stuff. There were clusters of upright bolts of cloth organized by color, patterns, and designers. Huge rollers of batting and extra-wide backing loaded horizontally on solid steel racks stood to one side. Every surface had a rack or cabinet displaying buttons, notions, needles, gauges, and cutters. Hung from the ceiling were top quilts from the traditional to the whimsical. Wilson was acutely aware he was in another world not his own, and stood a few feet within the threshold. “Hello?” he called out to the empty room.
“We’re back here, Damon!” Clark responded and her voice carried through a small hallway that led out of the commercial area of the store. Wilson followed the sound of her voice and suddenly found himself confronted by a table of women carefully working on various projects.
“Ladies,” he greeted them with a nod to the room. His acknowledgement was silently noted by the women of the Stitch and Bitch, and held in stark comparison to DC Tull’s manners earlier in the day. Clark was sitting at the back table along with a dark-haired woman; unlike the other ladies, neither of them were working on a craft. They both rose as he entered, and Clark waved him to follow her even further back.
“This is Bobby Knolls; she owns the shop,” Clark introduced her friend.
“Nice to meet you, Ms. Knolls,” he addressed her with a handshake.
“You as well, Mr....?”
“Warwick,” he answered.
“Mr. Warwick...Vivienne took one look at the video and said you’d be interested,” Bobby summed up her understanding. It had been a jarring Sunday, all things considered.
“I have no doubt that’s the case,” Wilson replied as he followed her into a truly tiny room. He had to squeeze behind her as she sat down in a folding chair in front of a security console. Clark stood in the doorway, where she had a good view of the both the screen and his face.
“This is from the exterior camera on the shop,” Knolls explained as she pressed play. Wilson hunched over her shoulder and oriented the camera angle—set just under cover of the exterior awning facing south—and carefully watched the short video. It was grainy and a bit jumpy, but everything was easily discernable.
He grunted in interest when the monk appeared, and Clark caught the briefest predatory mien pass over his face before it was replaced by confusion at the disappearance of the two figures after they’d traveled a few steps south.
“Could you play that again?” he requested intently.
Knolls complied. “I’d never believed Vivienne’s stories—sorry Vivienne—but this makes a believer out of me. That’s the Black Monk all right, and in front of my store!”
Wilson ignored her chatter. “Would you play it one more time, please?” He leaned in close, carefully comparing the shadows cast by the street lamp on the corner to confirm what he thought he’d seen. Both figures in the video had shadows. That meant that whatever the figure was, he knew it wasn’t a ghost—ghosts were incapable of casting shadows.
“This is the man who was found murdered?” he asked, confirming what he’d been told.
“Yes,” Clark responded. “I had given him a Greater Missenden ghost tour earlier in the evening.”
Wilson straightened. “Is it possible I could have a copy of this, Ms. Knolls?”
Wilson saw the ladies exchange quick glances before the shop owner spoke, “Of course. I downloaded this from the cloud, so if you’d just give me your e-mail address, I’ll mail it to you.”
Wilson extricated himself from the close quarters to retrieve one of his business cards. As Knolls attached the file to the e-mail, he quietly pulled Clark aside and spoke in a hushed tone, “I’d like to speak privately with you some time soon.”
“I was just about to leave, so if you want, you could escort me home,” she suggested.
“That sounds good,” he replied. Knolls piped up, informing him that the message had been sent. Wilson quickly checked his phone to make sure he’d received it, and thanked her for everything she’d done. “This is the most remarkable thing I’ve ever seen,” he lied. “I’m going to have to keep quiet on it for a while, however, as the police are interested in it. But rest assured, it will see publication. The study of ghosts is of great scientific importance.”
Knolls and the other ladies in attendance were adequately impressed by Wilson’s proclamation, although they would not compare observations until after he and Clark left the shop. Clark gathered her things and made her goodbyes. Wilson waited and held the door open for her. Once they were outside Shear Panic, Clark wagered a guess, “Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”
Wilson nodded. “I don’t know what we saw, but it definitely wasn’t a ghost. Can you tell me about the tour you gave the night of the murder?”
Clark looked at a loss. “What do you want to know?”
“Where did you start? What did you talk about? Which path did you walk?” Wilson nudged her.
Clark paused to collect her thoughts before she resumed walking; Wilson waited until she was ready, and let her set their pace. “It’s all variations on the same theme. We started at the Greysides, and I told them about the gravestones lining the building. We walked down High Street, and I went through séances and all the usual suspects—Clara Felton, Johnathan Blake, and the Livingstones. I remember they were really interested in ghosts, and the four of them had just formed a group, Chiltern something or other. Then we went to the abbey, and I always use that dark spooky stretch to talk about the Black Monk. We made a couple of stops around the outside of the abbey and went through the park before circling back to the Greysides.”
Wilson mentally mapped the tour’s route. “Do you remember which entrance and exit you used through the park?”
Clark thought it an odd question, but answered nonetheless. “We entered on the back abutting the abbey and exited out the main entrance. I like to keep to the paved paths at night—fewer turned ankles.”
“Did you pass the old tree where they found the dead body?” Wilson posed a question as they paused at a light, waiting for the crosswalk light.
Clark shook her head back and forth. “No, I don’t go near the river on night tours. It’s muddy, and its location is somewhat unpredictable year-to-year.” Wilson puzzled—only one point on Clark’s path through the park bore the unknown magical signature, so it was unlikely that whatever it was followed them throughout the tour.
“Did anything unusual happen on the tour?” Wilson fished. “Did you or one of your guests feeling something, hear something, sense something?”
Clark shrugged as they turned down the alleyway leading to her house. “I can’t say anything out of the ordinary happened that evening.” Even though it had only been two days, she had given that tour so many times, things blurred together and nothing stood out in her mind. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more helpful.”
Wilson quickly reassured her, “You’ve already been helpful. With your call, I now know it is not a ghost.”
Clark perked up. “Yes, I suppose that’s something,” she said with a smile. After a quiet moment, they reached her door and said their goodbyes. “If there’s anything I can do, just let me know,” she offered.
“There is one thing you could do. Do you have an old wire clothes hanger? Preferably two?”