Sacrifice Page 13

  ‘Jen, it’s me!’ he said. ‘This burning HGV … who reported it?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ came the reply. ‘Call came through St Helens central control.’

  ‘Try to get some details, yeah. And have a word with DCI Garrickson … we’ll need a house-to-house on Ingley Nook. That lot may have seen something.’

  From the angle of the burnt lorry, not to mention the swerving tyre tracks left behind on the slope, it had been driven off the road at speed. They peered into its interior as they circled around to the front; it had been completely gutted – every inner surface charred to a crisp. If anyone nailed to a cross had been transported in there, there’d be no trace of it now – no matter how much blood had been shed. Even more frustrating, the wheels had also been torched, each tyre so melted that the treads were unrecognisable.

  The lorry had struck the foundations full-on, as though driven at them deliberately. Its radiator grille was smashed, mechanical innards poking through, leaking steam, while its front two axles had been ripped away; it had come to a rest tilting downward, its front fender at ground level. The impact had crumpled the bodywork of the cab – its roof had buckled and split wide-open, and most of its windows had warped in their frames and shattered, though the fragments remained in place. As the station-officer had said, the fire had not consumed this frontal section, though the paintwork on the cab was scorched and blistered by heat. However, though the front offside wheel was again a smoking, crispy remnant, the nearside wheel was missing.

  Heck searched around for it, and located it several yards away, lying alongside the vehicle’s registration plate, which had broken into several pieces. He put the number through for a PNC check, and while he waited, crouched to examine the wheel. Unfortunately, this one had also suffered fire damage, though not as extensively as the others. It wasn’t possible to say for sure that its tread pattern was a match for the marks at the slagheap – again the rubber was melted and distorted, but there were some similarities.

  ‘PNC to DS Heckenburg,’ came a tinny voice.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Checks out as a Scania R470 heavy goods vehicle, sarge. Reported stolen from a lorry park in Longsight, Manchester, on January 18 this year.’

  ‘Thanks for that.’ As Heck shoved the radio back into his pocket, his phone rang. The caller’s number indicated that it was Gemma. ‘Ma’am?’ he said.

  ‘What’s the story with this truck?’ she asked.

  ‘It could be ours, but there’s no obvious link yet. The tread patterns are damaged, so it’s hard to say for sure … but they’re not a world away from the ones we found at the scene.’

  ‘How much did the fire leave?’

  ‘Enough for us to go at. It needs covering up ASAP – we’ll probably want another of those wedding tents.’

  ‘Okay.’ She paused before asking: ‘Any gut feelings?’

  He glanced overhead. The sky was largely blue, but streamers of cloud were blowing in from the west. ‘The only real one is we’d better get the lab rats down here quickly. The scene’s already deteriorated badly, and we could get rain before the end of today.’

  ‘No problem.’ She rang off.

  ‘Have a look round,’ Heck told Gregson. ‘Search for any containers that might have been used to carry petrol. Also any suspect footprints. Bear in mind the fire brigade wear hobnailed boots, so we’re looking for trainer patterns, leather-soled shoes and the like.’

  Gregson moved away and Heck climbed onto the running-board to glance through the Scania’s driver door, though it was difficult seeing anything through the cracked, smoke-blackened glass. He took a pair of latex gloves from his pocket, pulling them on and snapping them into place around his wrists. Making the minimum possible contact, he depressed the button on the door handle. With a clunk, it opened; thanks to the cab’s tilted angle, the door swung outwards and he was able to peer inside.

  It was a typical motorised hovel. Maps and dog-eared vehicle documents were crammed into an open glove-compartment. Empty crisp packets and coffee-stained paper cups had been crushed into a side-pocket. A tatty little teddy bear and a set of rosary beads hung in front of the windshield. In sharp contrast, girlie posters – lithe, golden-tanned models in high heels and string bikinis – adorned the rear wall. But one thing in particular caught Heck’s eye – a book of matches, half used, lay in the middle of the passenger foot-well. He regarded it thoughtfully, before glancing up at the broken ceiling.

  He didn’t want to interfere with this crime scene so soon, but the elements weren’t on their side. If it rained, the interior of the cab could be washed out. Deciding he had no choice, he reached down and, taking a pair of tweezers from his pocket, gripped the book by one edge, and lifted it up to take a closer look.

  ‘Bingo,’ he whispered.

  Right in the middle of the matchbook’s shiny cover sat a large, oily thumbprint.

  Chapter 16

  Claire’s phone hadn’t stopped ringing all day. If it wasn’t journalists from the dailies it was the Press Association, if it wasn’t the Press Association it was Reuters. Her jaw was stiff and her throat dry from trotting out the party line, and no amount of coffee seemed able to put that right, though it did its bit to scramble her nerves.

  At length, she decided enough was enough, put all calls on hold and went out into the main area of the MIR, to stretch her legs. A few minutes earlier, she’d seen Gemma, Garrickson and several others coating up as they left the building. Hopefully that meant ground was being gained somewhere, but she knew she shouldn’t count on it. Herds of detectives came and went in this office like shoppers on a sales day. The atmosphere wasn’t exactly frantic, but it wasn’t relaxed either: everyone else’s phone seemed to ring as often as her own did; keyboards were relentlessly hammered.

  However, none of this caught Claire’s attention now as much as the three large display boards that Eric Fisher was working on. She already knew about the middle one, which documented the various crime scenes, while the one on the left was covered with more mundane imagery: rural life in old England, by the looks of it; trees and bushes woven with ribbons, village fetes, hordes of people in fancy dress. But Fisher was now in the process of adorning the board on the right, and in this case with material of a very different nature. They were mainly sketches or drawings, even a painting or two; thankfully there were no photographs.

  The first depicted a naked man bound face-first to a wooden frame. Two figures stood one to either side; both were hairy and brutish, clad in chain-mail and helmets. One was armed with a dagger, the other with a hammer and chisel. The victim’s back had been split open lengthways, and his spinal column was exposed; the ribs on one side had been chopped away from it like sticks of celery.

  ‘The Viking Blood-Eagle,’ Fisher said, when he saw what she was looking at. ‘A sacrifice to Odin designed to win his favour in war. The prisoner’s back was carved open, his ribs cut apart and the lungs pulled out to resemble the wings of an eagle. It was practised by conquering Viking armies, but not widely – the only captives deemed worthy of this death were kings or great war-leaders. Believe it or not, it was an honour.’

  ‘An honour,’ Claire said in disbelief.

  ‘Amazing, eh?’ Detective Sergeant Eric Fisher was a bit like a Viking, himself. He was in his late fifties and a huge, heavyweight chap, his monumental gut hanging down past the front of his waistband. He had beetle brows and half his craggy face was buried under a dense, red-grey beard. So out of shape was he that, no matter what he wore – and it was usually the required shirt and tie – it seemed scruffy on him. He wheezed when he walked and smelled constantly of sweat and cigarette smoke, but Claire knew that in SCU’s experience, as a researcher and analyst, Eric Fisher was unsurpassed.

  She glanced at the next image along. This one was a painting, probably from the classical era; it portrayed two men being burned at the stake. However, wood hadn’t been piled around them. Instead, they stood on a heap of red-hot coals. The
implication was obvious – the fire would burn torturously slowly. Though the victims were still alive, their eyes raised to heaven, their legs and feet had been reduced to naked bones.

  ‘The executions of Jacques Molay and Geoffrey de Charney in 1314,’ Fisher explained. ‘Two Templar knights burned for heresy. The idea was to drag out the immolation for as long as possible, so that all debts would be paid before they met their maker – gave them a better chance of avoiding hell.’

  ‘What are all these?’ Claire asked.

  ‘Religious killings,’ he replied. ‘Rituals, sacrifices … the purpose to achieve redemption through pain.’

  Religious … redemption …

  ‘Or to impose one’s belief system over another,’ Fisher added chattily. ‘What better way to show your god is top dog than by offering him the next god’s biggest supporters? And what better time to do it on than some special occasion that’s sacred to your faith – a feast day or what-not! How chuffed would your deity be?’

  Claire tried to look away, but even glimpsing some of the other imagery was enough to turn her stomach: blood streaming down the steps of a sunbaked ziggurat, at the apex of which a feather-wearing priest had just used a clawlike metal tool to tear the heart from the breast of a body spread on a slab; a huge idol smeared with gore, a mound of flayed corpses draped in its extended grasp, while around it priests and acolytes danced nude, except that, no … they weren’t nude, they were wearing the skins of the sacrificial victims. Claire swore she could hear a demonic drumbeat accompanying that last one.

  What a stupid child you are, she thought as she walked stiffly back to her office. Disturbed by a few drawings. But then it wasn’t the drawings so much as what they imparted. People had done these terrible things everywhere and since time immemorial. Compared to that appalling truth, what a cosseted world she had grown up in – where the most shocking thing that would happen during the average week was her father murmuring ‘shit’ after snipping his finger while pruning the prize roses in the garden of their middle-class Bournemouth home. How far removed she’d been from all this, and yet now, in the blink of an eye, she was right in the belly of the beast.

  It was difficult to believe, but yesterday – only yesterday! – she had witnessed a live crucifixion. She’d tried not to show it at the time, but that had knocked her for six. Heck had expressed similar revulsion – of course he had, but he was back out there, working, unaffected; in the rest of the office, people gabbled as they got on with stuff, ribbed each other, sniggered at idle jokes. Only now did it really strike Claire just how brave she was going to have to be – braver than she’d ever been in her life – to remain part of this team.

  ‘I can do it … I know I can!’

  And she meant it; she did, in all seriousness … though she still hoped no one had overheard her. Because though she’d uttered the words with such determination they had almost brought a sob from her throat, they still didn’t sound convincing.

  Not even to her own ears.

  Chapter 17

  Heck made his way back to the car and placed his fingerprint sample in a sterile container in the boot, before pulling his gloves off. Below him, Andy Gregson was working his way around the burnt lorry in steadily wider circles. Heck glanced along the road. There was no sign of any support yet, but they shouldn’t be long …

  A glint of light caught his eye.

  He straightened up, gazing past the lorry and across the spoil-land, which, thanks to his elevated position, now lay before him in a wide, arid plain.

  The light glinted again. It was very distant – maybe half a mile away, and it appeared to be located on a low ridge-line covered with scrub vegetation. When the light glinted a third time, Heck moved from suspecting that someone was watching them with binoculars, to a near-certainty that they were.

  Fleetingly, he was undecided what to do. It could be a completely blameless action. People wandered the countryside carrying binoculars for all sorts of innocent reasons.

  Yeah, right …

  He leapt behind the Peugeot’s wheel and shoved his key into the ignition, the 2.0 turbo diesel engine throbbing to life.

  As he roared down the unmade slope, he saw Andy Gregson emerge from around the blackened wreckage, staring at him with mouth open, but there was no time to stop and explain. The underside of Heck’s Peugeot took another battering as he gunned it forward over the rocky, undulating waste, wheels skidding, chassis jolting. He swerved sideways at one point, losing grip on the broken surface; with a sickening crunch, what sounded like his exhaust pipe fractured, his engine thundering in response.

  ‘Shit!’ Heck snapped.

  The ridge drew closer, but only slowly – distances out here were apparently deceptive. He hit troughs and dips, which threw him every which way as he crashed into and over them. Wiry thorns tangled around his wheels; an oil drum clattered away as he clouted it with his nearside headlight, which duly shattered. Despite all, his eyes remained locked on the approaching ridge. He hadn’t seen another flicker of light since he’d jumped into the car, but that was hardly surprising – they’d have spotted him coming, which was why speed was more important than stealth.

  With a grinding of axles and squealing of gears, he covered the last fifty yards along a shallow gully, bouncing over heaps of broken masonry and house bricks. A section of sewer pipe made from solid concrete jutted out at one side; only by swift, deft manoeuvres was he able to swerve around it without flaying paint from his flanks. The rutted slope of the ridge, a solid mass of compacted rubble, loomed directly ahead. He hit the brakes, again slewing sideways before staggering to a halt, jumped out and began scrambling uphill as much on all-fours as two feet. It was steeper than he’d expected, but the top couldn’t be far overhead. He fished his phone from his pocket as he climbed.

  ‘Andy!’

  ‘What’s going on?’ came the startled reply.

  ‘Someone’s watching us …’

  ‘What … who?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘That motor of yours’ll be a write-off.’

  ‘NCG can have the bill. Just stay where you are … Gemma’s en route.’

  Heck shoved the phone away. The sweat was dripping off him by the time he reached the top. He stood there, panting, scanning the level ground ahead. It was covered with spoil-land vegetation, twisted, stunted trees for the most part, meshed in clumps, and though it was only spring, knee-deep in brambles and thick green shoots of Idle Jack. There was no sound, not even a twitter of birds – which seemed ominous.

  He proceeded warily, seeing only narrow, sun-dappled dells. After a few yards, he glanced behind, realising that he was already losing sight of the open ground he’d driven across; the straggling undergrowth had closed to his rear like a pair of curtains. A voice then came from his right: somewhere in the near-distance, calling to someone.

  Heck halted in his tracks, listening hard.

  He moved a couple of yards in that direction, pushing aside branches and weeds, still seeing nothing. The voice sounded again. Distinctly deep, distinctly male. As before, it was calling a name, but the name was unrecognisable, and why had it this time sounded as if it was coming from a different direction? Was it the acoustics of this place, or – and this was an eerie notion – was there more than one individual here? Were they hiding out, making sport of him? He fingered at the phone in his pocket, but that would be little or no use – no one else was going to drive over that waste-tip. They’d have to come on foot, and that would take ages. A better plan might be to withdraw, but at what cost? What if the perps were here … and he just walked away?

  He heard another shout, this one further afield, carrying an echo. Despite his better judgment, Heck ventured forward again, pushing more branches aside, following the path as it zigzagged, still seeing no one, though, as the gradient began to slope downward again, the scrub vegetation thinned out, replacing itself with larger, healthier trees like oaks and sycamores. Beyond these, the ground fell away st
eeply and suddenly he found himself gazing down into open space, on possibly the last thing he’d expected.

  A graveyard … but a graveyard of trains.

  Heck was left speechless. Lines of carriages, and even the odd locomotive or two, were drawn up against rusty old buffers, and standing seven or eight in a row on railway tracks thickly overgrown with weeds. Their windows were frosted and filled with jagged black holes where rocks had been thrown. Spray-paint ran over them in arterial red and blue veins; their bodywork was dented, streaked with moss.

  At least this explains the echo, he thought vaguely.

  The old siding, which was probably connected in some way to the Liverpool-to-Manchester line, was a good sixty feet below him, lying in a natural valley. The path led down to it via a perilous gradient – so perilous in fact that he might not have bothered trying to descend, until he spied movement down there. What looked like a figure in a hooded, green waterproof had just stepped out of sight behind one of the derelict hulks.

  Heck hovered where he was, but the figure did not reappear. He fished his phone from his pocket, but because he was on lower ground than previously, the bulk of the spoil heap reared behind him, blocking out reception. He tried his radio, but the same problem affected it. He shoved the gadgets back into his pockets, making sure to turn down the volume on the radio first – it would be typical of a police PR that it had apparently died on you, only for it to buzz with static just as you were sneaking up on a felon.

  He started downhill, walking side-footed to avoid falling, all the time watching the rows of disused rolling-stock. At the foot of the slope, the path veered sharp-right and ran alongside a tall wire-mesh fence, but this was loose in many sections, and Heck had no trouble sliding underneath it. He stood up again, beating the dirt from his hands, listening intently. If people had been calling to each other, they weren’t doing it anymore. Was that because he was onto them? He ventured forward, stepping carefully amid thistles and rotted sleepers, peering down the narrow gaps between the vast, silent vehicles, where the shadows were deepest and the foliage grew neck-high. Doors hung open on either side, rank darkness lurking in the gutted interiors behind. There was still no sound. Only as he passed the fifth of these alleys did he spy movement at its far end: a fleeting glint of green. As before, someone had just lurched out of sight. Heck halted, holding his breath, and then an impulse made him spin around. If there was more than one of them, an unseen assailant could be stealing up from behind – but there was no one, just more open space, more rubble.