Ritual Read online

  Anna was sitting on the bed examining the contents of his case. On the coverlet beside her, there was a plate of sandwiches, cut in fresh triangles. He closed the door behind him. She was vaguely frightened. The upper side of a clear wave turned in her eyes.

  ‘I just came to see how you were. Brought you something to eat. Why didn’t you come to me last night?’

  Her words interrupted each other. In reply he crammed a tomato and cucumber triangle into his mouth. As he scrunched the sharp cucumber on his side teeth, he said, ‘You’ll end up dead, Dian—I mean, Anna! What were you doing with those children? Whatever it was it was bestial.’

  He munched two other sandwiches, noting that crab and gooseberry jam didn’t really mix. His hunger was a decimal point this side of vomiting. She watched him gorge. She liked the dark muscles clenching and unclenching under his chin.

  ‘Why didn’t you come into my room last night, David? I wanted it. I would have impressed you. I felt you hot through the cold wall. Forgive my lack of modesty, but after all, we are only enlightened animals, aren’t we?’

  Her hand flickered like a lizard’s tongue towards his core. She was disappointed to find he was unimpressed. His penis was as slack as a discarded snake’s skin. She stared at him bewildered.

  ‘Don’t you fancy me? I know in my bowels that you really want to have me. Don’t you?’

  David removed his sunglasses. Her tense fingers left his groin. She made a final attempt. She stroked the trouser leg hard against his upper thigh. Nothing. So she curved her nipple against him. She was beginning to bore him.

  His Puritan mind allocated time and place for sensuality. The time was midnight and the place, the lady’s bed. Not now and on his carpet. Patiently he searched his fingers into her rich hair. Minute flakes of scurf stuck to his fingernails. Then he gripped a handful of hair and unceremoniously yanked her to her feet. She screamed! He rammed his hand over her wet mouth. She snapped at him. He avoided her teeth. Releasing his grip on mouth and hair, he deposited her on the bed. She stretched her breasts and arms towards him. His very controlled cruelty proved to be a further aphrodisiac. He accepted her offer by thrusting two sandwiches into his mouth and stepping right away from the bed.

  ‘Anna, I’ll be forced to give you a good hiding with my braces if you don’t close your apertures and pull yourself together! On a midnight, if I’m desperate, I might condescend to have you. But as things stand, you’re a nymphomaniac and I’m a policeman. I have a job to do and it isn’t you! Now I suggest you talk. And I mean, talk.’

  As he said this, he unbuttoned his braces. Fortunately, his trousers fitted so he wasn’t reduced to his long underpants. Anna grinned. He twanged them free without taking his jacket off.

  ‘Oh, David. Lovely! Beaten first, followed by sublime nooky! So your kink is braces on a nude arse, is it? Or perhaps across the breasts? Or...?’

  Oliver Cromwell charged behind David’s eyes. Foam grimed the corners of his mouth. He brought the lash of his braces down on her wrist. His attitude was that of the school master. He certainly didn’t enjoy inflicting pain. Her green eyes glazed. She liked it. It was an experience. Not a new one in pain, but very stimulating because a policeman was responsible. And she’d never had a Detective Inspector before—plus sunglasses and braces!

  He prepared to lash her across the wrist again. She suddenly realised that sex wouldn’t follow. She changed her mind about enjoying it and decided to play for time. Already she’d heard from her mother that Dian’s death was definitely an accident. Her mother wanted the Inspector back in London. Anna just wanted the Inspector. And she wasn’t going to allow him out of her talons until she’d had him.

  ‘Mother has definite proof—she says—that Dian was not murdered!’

  ‘Well, do go on.’

  She saw the icebergs submerge in his eyes. His irises warmed from purple to pink. Self-conscious under her stare, David locked his sunglasses onto the bridge of his nose. ‘Well, go on!’

  ‘Well, they put young Gilly Rowbottom in a hypnotic trance. As you probably know, my mother’s recognised as the village witch. So she did it. The word “witch” has many interpretations. She is whatever you like her to be. What would you like her to be, sexy David.’

  ‘I said go on!’

  ‘Well, under hypnosis they discovered what Gilly said was true. Dian’s death was an accident. And, as you know, the subconscious has no sense of humour and rarely lies. So my mother thinks it’s time you packed your bags and got the hell out of here!’

  ‘And what do you think, Nymphy?’

  ‘I think she’s right. But I’d love you to stay. No, David, don’t ask me, what’s going on in this village. You know I can’t tell you. Look, couldn’t you just disappear for one night. Tonight. And then I’ll lay myself open to any suggestions.’

  Hanlin attached his braces onto his trousers. He was no longer amused. Might as well check up on Mrs. Spark, he thought, to see who’s lying.

  Munching the last strawberry jam sandwich, he walked to the door. He turned back.

  ‘You’re a slut! A brothelised slut! Get off my bed! If I can prove conclusively to myself that Dian’s death was not murder, I shall leave on this afternoon’s train, and you can play your rutting games with Gypo to your heart’s content! You even smell of fertilisation!’

  ‘Oh, poor old Oly Cromwell!’

  There was a knock on the door. David opened it. Two policemen entered. The two David had met yesterday evening. Three minute globes of sweat swung on the sergeant’s moustache. The acrid smell of fresh perspiration drifted into the bedroom. It soon overpowered Anna’s perfume. Like a water-logged spaniel, the sergeant shook the globes of sweat onto the carpet.

  ‘Sorry to barge in like this, here, Inspector Hanlin, sir, but I’ve got something important to tell you. Could you step into the street, sir!’

  ‘How did you get in here, man?’

  ‘Mrs. Spark let us in the frontway, sir. She weren’t very pleased about our muddy boots, neither!’

  ‘Nor am I, sergeant, nor am I!’

  ‘We’d like you to come with us. We’ve found something!’

  ‘Well, what?’

  Nervously, the sergeant inhaled his own sweat.

  ‘I don’t think it’s advisable to say, sir, in front of Miss Spark, if you follow me.’

  Followed by his assistant, the sergeant turned to leave the room.

  ‘I would be grateful if you did follow me, sir.’

  The sergeant left the room.

  ‘All right.’ David followed him and called back to Anna over his shoulder. ‘Get out of my room! Right out!’

  Anna grinned. She sucked saliva back and forwards between her pin teeth. She didn’t move. David considered whether he should drag her out of the room by her hair. He decided against it.

  Once they’d reached the street, David snapped at the sergeant, ‘All right, what is it?’

  ‘Young Billy, you know, fat Billy, well, he’s had a bad accident...’

  David was impressed.

  ‘What? How? Where?’

  The policeman took the official deep breath and said, ‘Under the giant oak tree, sir, where Dian Spark died. We thought it a bit of a coincidence like—so we came to you, sir!’

  ‘A bit of a coincidence? Blimey!’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  ‘My Christ! Is he dead?’

  ‘We think so, sir.’

  David was shattered. Then he and the policemen broke into a frantic run in the direction of the woods.

  Everything was going according to plan. But whose plan?

  14

  As they approached the outskirts of the wood, David instructed the young policeman to ring for an ambulance. The policeman went into the phone booth but before he could dial, David knocked on the glass. With a gasp of stale tobacco, the policeman came out again.

  ‘What is it, sir?’

  ‘Look, don’t tell the Hospital that the boy’s dead...’

  �
�But why, sir?’

  ‘Do as I tell you! Say you think it’s serious concussion. Then ring Billy’s mother and tell her about the accident. But don’t tell her the truth, either. I want to try a little experiment. To try and bring this out into the open. Yes, and when you’ve done that ring up Anna Spark—anonymously. And say fat Billy has been found with his neck broken under the giant oak tree.’ The inspector turned to the sergeant, ‘I’m right in presuming that the boy’s neck was broken, aren’t I, sergeant?’

  ‘Well, yes, it certainly looks like it, sir. But however did you guess?’

  ‘Unprofessional intuition—that’s why I am what I am and you are what you are! So just tell her that, PC17, and then join us. Ring her anonymously. Don’t forget that! Come on, sergeant, we’ve games to play!’

  He was glad he’d remembered the telephone box. Soon the sergeant and David were panting through the fern. In between puffs, the sergeant explained that one of his police cadets, Frederick Squash by name, had discovered the body on his way for a lunch-time swim. And how he’d left the boy on guard over the body because he thought it would be a good experience for him.

  ‘I presume you didn’t touch the body—other than taking the pulse? You didn’t disturb the footprints, did you?’

  ‘Oh no, sir! I knew—from your personality, like—I knew you wouldn’t take it kindly if we did.’

  ‘And you’re right! You’re right!’

  Thoroughly out of breath, they eventually reached the giant oak tree. The cadet was standing about five yards from the body. David congratulated the sergeant on his presence of mind. If there were any footprints, they would not have been destroyed by the cadet. With an expert flick of his big toe, David removed his desert boots. Concentrating all his weight on the balls of his feet, he glided towards the heap of blubber.

  The sergeant and cadet watched as the inspector methodically searched for ‘clues’, as they put it. They could see him examining the broken neck. David looked at the bough from which Billy had presumably fallen. That’s if it were an accident. Then the sergeant noticed him remove something from the boy’s collar. At least, that’s what it looked like from where they stood. After a five minute examination of the grass surrounding the body, David walked carelessly back to the expectant policemen.

  ‘It was an accident, all right,’ the Inspector said. ‘There’s absolutely no trace of anyone else’s footprints there.’

  He slipped his desert boots on. Two ambulance men walked towards them, carrying a stretcher rolled up like a giant umbrella. A middle-aged woman was running beside them. Presumably Billy’s mother.

  ‘I’m going to tell her a lie, sergeant. I don’t want anyone to know that the boy’s dead yet. Do you understand me? I’m going to say he’s suffering from severe concussion. Don’t ask me why, but I have a hunch that things aren’t quite as they should be. After tonight, if nothing further happens I’ll leave this village. And you’ll all be glad. Now, don’t say you won’t, because you will!’

  Billy’s mother stumbled toward her son. The Inspector took her firmly by the shoulders before she could reach him. He explained that the boy was suffering from concussion. As he tried to soothe her growing hysteria, the ambulance men laid Billy on the stretcher. It was all performed coldly and efficiently. To them, it was simply another hulk of flesh to be cut up by medical instruments. It had no personality, only blood corpuscles. They moved the body towards the woods. The sergeant briefly explained to the stretcher bearers that it would be better if they kept their mouths shut or life would be very difficult for them. As they walked, they placed a white cloth over the boy’s mouth to staunch the blood. The cadet took Billy’s mother by the arm. They walked beside the stretcher bearers. No one spoke. The Inspector brought up the rear.

  The wood was a battle ground of bird cries. Nature had no respect for the dead. It relentlessly continued its timpani. It enjoyed death. All death. Refracted from the glassy leaves, sunlight bounced in their eyes as they came out of the wood.

  The other policeman was waiting for them beside a stationary ambulance. The journalist, who had photographed Dian’s accident, stood beside him.

  Suddenly Billy’s mother flicked away from the cadet. She ran towards her son. But the Inspector was too quick for her. He swung the mother round to face him.

  ‘Your son will die, madam, if you touch him. If anyone touches him. Our only hope is to get him to hospital unmolested. Then maybe there’s a chance maybe!’

  There were times in his life when he wished he didn’t have to lie so often. He knew if his superior saw him playing this particular hunch, he would probably demote him. It was really excessive—based on nothing but intuition. He had stoked his imagination to hate the filth in this village. And there was plenty of filth about. He had found something on Billy that he knew would rock the village. If only he could show them it at the right time, everything would explode. Timing was everything. Tonight they would celebrate Midsummer Eve. Tonight he would catch them by the Devil’s heel. It was pointless questioning them as to their whereabouts at the time of Billy’s accident. They’d all got alibis to back one another’s statements. No, he had to catch them in the act.

  Thoughts stuttered through his head. He hardly noticed Billy’s mother’s hysteria rising to boiling point. When he looked at her again, she was crying. Billy was safely deposited in the ambulance. She began shouting at David. He ignored it and escorted her to sit beside the ambulance driver. She screamed she wanted to sit beside her son. David was cold but explicit. She sat beside the ambulance driver, even though it was irregular. The ambulance drove away.

  ‘Be vague in your report, Sergeant,’ David whispered, I’ll do the explaining. I’m relying on you now!’

  The sergeant grinned. To be trusted made a pleasant change. He would be a good sergeant and do what he was told. He asked David whether he should leave a policeman on guard by the tree. David said no, and motioned the sergeant and the policeman to return to their duties.

  The journalist hadn’t moved. He waited.

  The policemen galumphed towards the village. It was over. They were thankful that the Inspector had taken the responsibility away from them. They appreciated that.

  The Inspector went to the phone booth. The journalist stopped him with a question. ‘Isn’t it a trifle odd, Inspector, that two children should die in the same way, under the same oak tree, within a week?’

  ‘Presumably you’re from the Press?’

  ‘Yes, Inspector, I work for the Thorn Star. Would you like to see my card?’

  ‘No, thank you. I have no statement for the Press at this time.’ God, thought the Inspector, I sound pompous. He entered the booth, firmly closing the door behind him. The journalist tapped on the window. ‘Could it be murder, Inspector? It’s no use you trying to keep this a secret. Even the police work hand in glove with the locals. They won’t exactly betray your trust—it’s just they talk too much. Within half an hour the whole village will know that fat Billy’s dead. Concussion, my Chelsea boots! And you’re behaving rather oddly, Inspector. I noticed the way you wouldn’t let Mrs. Thompson sit with her son. Yet the boy was dead as a doornail, wasn’t he? Please give me a few little facts, Inspector. I would much prefer you tell me the truth, rather than having to conjure up a few ideas on murder myself!’

  David came out of the telephone box with a violence he couldn’t control. He raised his fist, about to punch an oblong hole in the journalist’s forehead. He lowered it and straightened the journalist’s collar.

  ‘Young man, you’ll publish nothing until I tell you. If you do, I’ll write your professional epitaph. Do I make myself clear?’

  The journalist still thought he could push him. ‘But for me, Inspector, but for me, but for my publishing an angled version of the death of Dian Spark, you wouldn’t be here at all! So an eye for a tooth, please!’

  David sharpened his eyes to purple pen-nibs.

  ‘Remember what I said, that’s all. Just remember!’


  He re-entered the booth. The journalist considered whether it would be physically wise to continue the assault. He decided against it, and left. David dialled Scotland Yard. After a good two minutes wait, his superior, Detective Chief Inspector Peter Thornton, came on the line. The line was punctuated by crackling. His super was in a very vile humour. No sooner had David announced himself than he was greeted by an earful of vitriol.

  ‘Where the bloody hell have you been? I agreed not to have you tagged, Hanlin, or even rung up by anyone this end, but I must bloody well admit, I did expect you to ring me up before bloody this!’

  David was used to the abuse. It was always best to let the acid eat through your head until it had burnt itself out or your head had rotted off. His Chief continued to rant his way through another dozen ‘bloodies’. Hanlin could picture him with his sweating bald head and the whole of Epping Forest bristling from his nostrils and ears. It was as if all the hair of his head had formed a Forestry Commission and concentrated on his nose and ear holes. Another pleasant thing about him, was that he always held the telephone too close to his roaring mouth. Secrecy was out of the question. Deafness for the listener a certainty!

  Eventually Thornton puffed into temporary silence. David spoke for the first time since he’d announced himself.

  ‘You’re quite right, sir, about my dubious methods, but you must admit they do bring results. Things are coming very much to a head here.’

  ‘Stop bleeding well patting yourself on your sanguinary back! Give me the crudding facts!’

  ‘Well, that’s a little more difficult, sir—you see...’

  ‘I know!’ reverberated the conch voice of his super. ‘You’re working on one of your bloody-minded hunches, aren’t you?’

  ‘In a nut-shell.’

  ‘I’ll smash your bloody nut-shell for you in a minute! Now, listen to me, listen to me!’ roared his over-excited Chief to the majority of Cornwall. David listened. He and Cornwall had no alternative. His boss screamed on. ‘This is the third ritual murder you’ve abominably perpetrated in the last six months! And as yet you’ve not turned up with one murderer! Oh, yes, you’ve charged nearly every country in England with First Degree Lust! And you’ve slowed down poaching in remote East Anglia, but as yet you’ve entirely missed out on the stinking object of the stinking exercise! Well, buggering listen to me—listen to me! I’m giving you another rotten twenty-four hours to play your hunch—and then I will send a couple of bleeding squad cars down there and a handful of dogs to clean your excrement up. Is that understood?’