Ritual Page 19

  Gypo tried to lever an arrow out of his quiver. David snapped the quiver off the gypsy’s shoulders. They rolled over into the sun’s furnace. The dogs were hunting nearer.

  The sun shrivelled David’s eyes. Much worse than in the church. He fastened a throttle hold onto Gypo’s jugular vein. The bull-goring pain in his shoulder made him sweat and shake. Then Gypo slammed a sharp elbow against the tunnelling arrow. The arrow was ripped out of David’s shoulder. The blood roared and left its lair. Suddenly they were both swamped in David’s blood. The sun was sending him mad. He couldn’t think properly as it roasted his eyeballs. They both were fighting for strangle-holds, grappling at the other’s throat. David knew he’d blackout soon. The reek of his own blood churned his bowels. Blood was everywhere. And the dogs were coming.

  21

  The police had arrived. And they weren’t in the nicest of moods. They’d had no breakfast. They descended upon the village with Gestapo precision. Four policemen and one detective were already combing the woods. Admittedly they were assisted by three hungry Alsatians. Their orders were simple. Keep in close contact with the local police station, which they were using as a base. Bring in any suspicious-looking characters for questioning. Try, if possible, to pick up the cold trail from the oak tree. Question everyone in the village, particularly relatives and odd-balls—that meant everybody. And, by God, that’s just what they were doing! Their swearing hysterical super had promised them; ‘a bleeding scrotum visit if the whole crudding case wasn’t wrapped up by the middle of the steaming afternoon! Most of them were deaf as it was so the last thing they wanted was the deafener in person.

  Whilst the Alsatians, walkie-talkies and policemen stormed through the undergrowth, door to door questioning was under way. Each questioner carried a minute tape recorder in his inside pocket, which was switched on before every conversation.

  Detective Inspector Amos Coldwell was putting some very difficult questions to Mrs. Spark. He was doing this on his super’s advice. Although Detective Chief Inspector Peter Thornton would never admit it to Detective Inspector David Hanlin, he also worked on hunches. The main difference being that Thornton’s hunches generally paid off, whereas David’s didn’t. That was why his super was super and David was miserable.

  ‘You had the motive to kill Billy, Mrs. Spark. A cheap revenge for your daughter. So will you kindly accompany us to the station for further questioning.’

  Mrs. Spark felt her knowledge of Hanlin was sufficient to enable her to deal with any policeman. Especially this pompous fellow. She tried to work her way into his imagination. She concentrated her midnight emeralds hard on his eyes but she found she was getting nowhere. Again she applied her strong will against his imagination. Again it was useless. He had no imagination. She was forced to use words.

  ‘I presume you haven’t a warrant, Inspector. So you’d better come back when you’re better prepared!’

  Coldwell produced a handful of warrants out of his raincoat pocket. He wasn’t a detective for nothing. He even wore his raincoat in a heat wave. He loved to conform.

  ‘These are all warrants, Mrs. Spark. Our super, who is remarkably belligerent even by my standards, said we can arrest you villagers on any charge we like. Anything from, let’s say—evasion, rape, murder, robbery, with and without violence, prostitution, perversion, arson, poaching and corruption. You name it and we can arrest you on it! I should come along quietly. And your daughter, too.’

  Mrs. Spark realised it was pointless appealing to his subconscious. He probably hadn’t got one! She followed the Inspector down the alley.

  ‘I’m afraid my daughter’s not in at the moment. And before you ask, I don’t know where she is.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, we’ll find her. Don’t you worry.’

  As they were passing the Rowbottom’s cottage, Coldwell called in. A policeman was about to bring the Rowbottoms in for questioning. Coldwell suggested it would be better to leave them for an hour or so, otherwise the station would be like a football stand. Then he took Mrs. Spark to the car.

  The questioning was in full swing now. The village was overrun by policemen and dogs. The super’s policy was always to send in the entire police force for one day at great expense, rather than allow a couple of detectives to run up a ‘ginormous’ bill over a period of weeks.

  Then the Press arrived. The super didn’t tell them about the witchcraft until he was sure his men had a good start. But this didn’t deter them. They borrowed a helicopter and landed in the middle of the cat butcher’s field where he kept his stolen cats. The Press eventually reached the main street, but not before the indignant cats had removed the odd collar and shoe lace. A gentleman from the News of the World, whose father was head of the Vice Squad, had a small portion of his cheek removed by a progressive tabby.

  They burst onto the village, cameras flashing at everything but the object of their visit. After they’d tried to obtain an official statement from the police and been rebuffed, they headed for the woods. This helpful move was curtailed by Inspector Coldwell arriving in a squad car.

  ‘Now, listen, fellows. The woods are full of nasty doggies, walkie-talkies and hungry coppers, so I suggest—well, actually, it’s an order—I suggest you apply your amateur sleuth minds to the village, Just don’t question anyone or take any photographs, that’s all! All right?’

  And he drove off. The press, being decent law-abiding shit-rakers, charged for the woods. To their dismay they saw the squad car pull up some fifty yards ahead. They walked up to the car, intending to ignore it. As they levelled, Coldwell wound his window down.

  ‘Boys, I feel you’re about to be naughty! If any of you go into that wood, I’ll have you out of your jobs in no time! And you know I’m not joking because I have no sense of humour! My super, who you all know is a retrogressive bastard—I’m even bloody talking like him!—well, my super has given me strict orders to arrest who we like, on whatever charges we like—and we will! so DON’T!’

  They knew he meant it. So they didn’t. Well, not immediately.

  The woods were alive with barking. It throbbed through the sticky leaves.

  Hanlin crawled out of the clearing. He was not bleeding as badly as before. His shirt was ripped and he’d lost his sunglasses. The sun had half-blinded him. His shoulder was a numb flame. Blood began to leak from the wound again. It had temporarily clotted but the strain of crawling made it erupt.

  He dragged himself in a circle, pressing his torn hands on the moist grass. The pain pressed on his nerve centre. He wanted to scream. He didn’t. He could smell the approaching dogs. He was sure they were off their leads. They must have scented his blood. As he ached his knees back into the clearing, he knelt on Gypo’s bow. He ignored it and forced himself on. His vision was wet and smokey. He could only see sliding colours. Nothing was specific. Then with relief, the exploring fingers of his left hand bumped into his sunglasses. The agony of sight and shoulder was extreme. He crammed the glasses onto his nose. Both lenses were badly cracked but he still managed to vaguely see through them. Anything was better than the sun. Anything. He was lucky to be alive.

  Two black Alsatians raced into the clearing and charged at David. Before he had time to prepare himself, a pair of sticky fangs found their way into his ankle bone. But he managed to ward off the frontal attack of the other dog.

  Three policemen, armed with radios and sweat, puffed into view.

  The fangs had got a fairly impressive grip on David’s ankle. He’d barely enough energy to scream or even whimper. It took the arrivals seconds to realise that this bleeding mess was their superior officer. They dragged the dogs off. David was too exhausted to reprimand them. One of the policemen, Birk by name, discovered a small piece of sticking plaster inside his helmet which he endeavoured to stick on David’s ankle.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, leave me alone! And put those dogs on a bloody lead! I was nearly killed by a murderer as it is, without being ripped apart by these brutes! We’ve got to fi
nd him. Gypo! What a name for you!’

  He stopped to rip the policeman’s tie off. The policeman was too bewildered to object. He just stroked the Chinese burn on his neck. David had a healthy tug for a wounded man. Until they saw fresh blood spurt, they hadn’t realised where it was coming from. They crowded round to help but only succeeded, as usual, in doing nothing—and taking a long time about it.

  David acted as quickly as the pain would allow. He tied a handkerchief over the wound with the help of the policeman’s tie. Clamping his hand on an available shoulder, he pulled himself to his feet. With the policeman’s help he began to stumble further into the woods.

  ‘Don’t you think one of us should take you to hospital, sir?’

  ‘Not until I’ve caught the swine! He nearly choked me! Thank hell, you and the cavalry arrived. You see, he wasn’t going to risk being caught. He gave me an effective chop on the jugular vein with the knife of his hand and belted into the undergrowth. I would’ve chased him but I’m sunblind without my glasses. He can’t have gone far ‘cos I anchored my foot in his genitals as he left! Though he’s probably getting used to his potential being hammered. He might have recovered by now. Let’s try this way!’

  He was bleeding regularly now. A rich purple. David pressed his hand gently over the pit in his shoulder. Blood squished through his fingers. Again a policeman suggested he should go to hospital. Again he said no.

  ‘There’s only one person this side of the woods who could hide him. Through here!’

  David moved through a tangle of blackberries towards the Manor House.

  The Alsatians veered to the right. Their barking went mad. David ordered the policemen to let the dogs off the lead. They did. The dogs skittered through the bushes and burst into a sunlit clearing. David followed them. The light seemed to bite through the cracks in his glasses.

  At first they couldn’t believe their eyes. Slowly they did. Gypo was pinned by an aluminium arrow to an oak tree. The arrow was eating into his throat. He was quite dead. David was stunned.

  He went up to Gypo who looked like a ripped tomato. Red seeds spilled from the jugular vein. The face was contorted. Fear was balanced by a ludicrous smile. David bent down to examine the wet grass for footprints. Other than Gypo’s there were none. He ordered the policemen to take the dogs and explore the surrounding shrubbery. Nothing. There was no sign of a struggle even. An expert bowman could pick Gypo off at some reasonable distance. It was about half a mile to the Manor. There was a good three hundred yards from the body to the first tree. Anyone could have shot him and retreated to the Manor with ease.

  But why? Why kill him? Presumably because he knew who the murderer was. The murderer had to be at the Manor.

  David turned to the elder policeman and suggested he took a constable and a dog and patrolled the beach whilst the third policeman called the station with his radio.

  ‘I want you all to be very careful. The killer will murder without thinking. And I want him. I want him.’

  The policemen obeyed their orders and moved to the beach. David remained behind a moment and suggested to the radio operator that he examine the area for clues, etc. The operator brightened up at the prospect. David ran as quickly as the wound would allow to the Manor.

  No sooner had he left the woods than he realised that he was being followed by little feet. He stopped and told the children to go home or the dogs would get them. They didn’t reply. He moved on. The feet continued to patter. He stopped and warned them again. Silence. He moved on again. The feet didn’t follow. At least, he couldn’t hear them.

  He felt very awake. The bleeding had subsided. A dark black clot tightened over the wound. His shoulder burned and froze. The ache beat its persistent side-drum. He looked a real hobo who’d been thoroughly beaten up by Advanced Technology. A flash of dizziness rocked him against the Manor wall. And the blood dribbled like a baby. Quickly he staunched it by ripping off his shirt tails and stuffing them under the handkerchief, covering the wound. He bumped along the wall until he reached the garden gate. The one facing the lawn. Somewhere to the left he heard the familiar pitter of feet again. He stopped, wanted to shout at them, but realised it would spoil his entrance. He said nothing. Brick powder attached itself to his bandage as he slid along the wall.

  Then he slumped to his knees. He couldn’t make it. But he was determined to see it through. He knew he’d never respect himself as Under Librarian of the Scilly Isles if he didn’t. He hauled himself to his feet with his fingers locked in the putty and reached the gate. It was ajar. Its iron lace scrollwork rippled in front of him. He pushed open the gate and entered on his knees.

  Again he got up. The garden ignored him. And its five occupants were unaware of him. Spitting blood from his shoulder he half ran along the lawn. It was only his harsh breathing that warned the garden’s occupants they had a visitor.

  Anna saw him first. Like the Squire, Cready, Martin and the Reverend, she was practising a little archery. Arrows were notched in the willow wands but even more stippled the green.

  At first she didn’t move. Then she saw he was bleeding. She felt warm to him. Very. Even hot. Strangely her blooded nose had made no difference to the way she felt about him. He wouldn’t have hit her like that if he’d been indifferent, would he? she thought.

  With blood on his hands he lurched to the left. She ran to him but didn’t say anything. She simply ripped a large strip from the side of her summer dress and dabbed at the wound. He tried to brush her aside. His thoughts were a whirligig. Obviously one of them was a killer. They all had a motive and no motive.

  Flexing his bow, Cready came towards him. The Squire followed. They were enjoying his suffering. The Reverend smiled. Then the Squire smiled. Cready grinned and Martin licked his lips. The real Raspberry Jam had arrived.

  But which one? And why? And then it came to him. He knew. He seized Anna by the hand.

  ‘Come with me. I want to talk to you.’

  ‘Let me take you to the hospital, David. You’re bleeding. You’re bleeding badly!’

  David ignored her advice. Still clasping her hand, he lurched towards Cready.

  ‘How long have you all been playing Robin Hood, children?’ He directed his questions at Cready. ‘Who was the last arrival, then? Because one of you has done a very naughty thing. One of you has shot a nasty little arrow right through Gypo’s Adam’s apple. I don’t mind William Tell—but this is ridiculous!’

  David was not smiling but his viewers grinned from ear to ear.

  ‘We’ve been here all morning, sir, she said!’ replied Mr. Cready.

  ‘Oh, don’t you worry. I know the murderer. I was on completely the wrong track until Gypo was murdered. Yes, I have to admit that. But then you gave the game away. You see, the first two murders were the ritual variety but the third murder was very personal.’ David wiped a sticky hand across his mouth, unaware that he’d stained his lips a dirty carmine. ‘I thought Gypo was responsible for the first two until someone knocked him off. And why did they knock him off? I asked myself. Because he knew the identity of the murderer and also a great deal too much about your horrid little rituals, didn’t he? Then I remembered that Gypo was conspicuous by his absence at your orgies. So obviously the child killer killed Gypo for other than ritual reasons. I won’t say I don’t appreciate Gypo’s death—I do. It’s child murder that upsets my Liquorice Allsorts. Well, come along, Anna. Let me take you amongst friends. I don’t want you mixed up in this any more than you have to be!’

  None of the protagonists noticed the Gang, slotted behind the iron lace. The children couldn’t hear exactly what the Inspector was saying but they sensed the finale was coming.

  ‘Where are you taking me, David?’

  ‘For a walk on the beach. There’ll be a couple of policemen there to escort you home. It wouldn’t be safe to try and get through the woods on your own. The Alsatians are peckish.’

  David indicated the plaster on his bitten ankle.

  ‘An
d what about us, Rip Kirby? What about us?’ said Cready.

  ‘As for you,’ said David, stepping up to him and punching him hard in the stomach with his left hand, and pile-driving his nose with his right. ‘As for you, you’ll wait with your friends until I come back. Don’t run away.’

  Cready bunched up like a skewered hedgehog and moaned at David’s feet. David looked down.

  ‘I’d dearly love to kick you—but I won’t. You’re scum!’ Even in his pain Cready was able to smile. Martin aimed his bow at David.

  ‘I shouldn’t, Gregory. The dogs’ll eat you if you do!’

  Martin lowered his bow. He wasn’t a Hollywood Star for nothing. He knew when the trick was impossible, and when it was best to call a stunt man in.

  Cready tried to get up but David touched him gently with his foot as a warning. The Reverend opened his mouth but only the reek of breakfast coffee emerged. They knew they’d pushed the Inspector beyond the point of return. David dearly wanted to kick Cready but refrained. He realised the full implications of what he was about to do. Because they were animals, there was no point him turning animal, too. Cready clutched himself into himself. Whatever he was, he wasn’t a coward. He didn’t even cry out.

  David looked at the suffering Cready, then at the faces of the Three Musketeers, and then at Anna. He made his decision.

  ‘Come along, Anna. I’ll take you to the policemen on the beach.’

  Anna was bewildered, She decided she’d rather be with David than without him. She was never sure why but she relied less on her instincts when he was around. Not that she loved him in the proper sense of the word. No, she rather needed what he was in himself; a sensual Puritan with a muddled authority. They left the garden, hand in hand.

  Cready was helped to his feet by his court. Without looking at the targets, he loosed three arrows. Only one found its mark. The other two quivered in the turf. Cready tried again. He knew the only way to overcome humiliation and pain was to concentrate on something else. Martin suggested he should lie down. But for Cready, relief lay in archery so he went on. None of them discussed the coming accusations. They were very interested to know who was guilty. They trusted each other even less than they did before—if that was possible.