The Stonehenge Legacy

18

Jake Timberland is thirty-one but tells anyone who doesn’t know better that he’s twenty-seven. There’s something about thirty or over that he simply isn’t ready to have pinned on him. In Jake’s circle of friends, age is like the big birthday badge fastened on your chest when you are a kid, proclaiming ‘I AM 5’. Only at thirty it might as well say ‘I AM Slippers. Carpets. Dogs. Families. Volvos. I AM DULL.’

And dull sure ain’t Jake. Especially on a night when he’s done more chemicals than Pete Doherty and Amy Winehouse put together.

He’s not rich. But his father is. Banker bonus rich. The kind that comes from so far back in the family tree that the damn thing must have been a sapling in the garden of Eden when Adam was still pawing around. One day Jake will cop for the lot, but until then he has to make do with a five-million-pound pied-à-terre in Marylebone and an allowance that’s just enough to run the Aston, pay his club bills, make the occasional investment and enjoy the odd night on the town.

Jake is the only son and heir of Lord Joseph Timberland and he’s been papped with some of society’s hottest models, page-three girls and wild-child daughters of ageing rock stars. Sure it helps that your best buddy is a lensman at Heat magazine, but then what are friends for?

Tonight he is dressed to kill. A shimmering silk and cotton blue suit with a plain saturated-blue shirt and new black Italian leather shoes. He already has his sights set on a real hottie. A lithe piece who’s breezed into the VIP area at Chinawhite’s and is acting like she owns the place. Her perfect teeth say she’s American long before you hear her laugh and chat over-loudly to her entourage. Soaring cheekbones, warm brown eyes, carefully scrunched long dark hair and fabulous legs that stretch from a retro dashiki-style miniskirt in green, hot pink and coral. She looks like a film star hippie.

Just watching her sends a rush of blood to his head.

Then she glances his way.

Oh, man. Jake thinks he’s going to blow like an oil well. He floats across the floor, pulled by her sheer sexual gravity. The lithe one is surrounded by lots of pretty young things, boys and girls, but it seems she has eyes only for him.

‘Whoa, fella. Hold up.’

The voice and a big black hand on his chest come out of nowhere.

‘Excuse me.’ Jake peers disdainfully at the big fingers spread like the jaw of a crocodile near his puny white neck. ‘Do you mind?’

He’s speaking polite and perfect English into the face of a man so large he can’t see beyond his shoulder-span. ‘You need to back up a little, sir. The lady over there is having a party and there are no strangers allowed.’

Jake gives in to a nervous laugh. ‘A party without strangers? Just let me introduce myself to the young lady, I’m—’

The crocodile snaps. The finger-jaws grab Jake’s throat and have him walking breathlessly backwards all the way to a seat in the far corner of the VIP lounge.

As he struggles for breath, an older man with short white hair squats on his heels and looks deep into Jake’s eyes. ‘Son, we’re sorry to have had to do that. Now we’re going to order you a complimentary bottle of whatever you like and you’re going to stay right over here and drink it. Okay?’

‘This is my club,’ protests Jake, his voice raspy. He surprises himself by standing up. But once on his feet he has no real idea what he should do next. His way forward is blocked by crocodile man and another black-suited animal. He’d need ladders to climb over them.

Beyond the mountain range of their muscles, his eye again catches that of the beautiful young American. She murmurs to a blonde beside her — and, to Jake’s amazement, starts to walk his way.

There is no mistaking her intention. Her eyes never lose contact with his. Whoever she is, she’s coming over to talk to him.

The mountains shift menacingly towards him but he doesn’t care. They say love hurts. Jake guesses he’s just about to find out precisely how much.

19

Gideon’s mobile is chirping downstairs like a bird trapped in a flue.

He knows he won’t get to it before it trips to his message service but hurries out of his father’s hidden room and tries anyway.

He misses it by seconds.

The voicemail kicks in as he scours the worktops for pen and paper. He finds a rip-and-stick pad by the fridge. The front page bears a rough shopping list — cheese, biscuits, fruit, chocolate — the last supper his father never had.

He plays back the missed call, scribbles down the number and punches it in once the message has ended.

The voice at the other end is a woman’s. ‘CID. DI Baker.’

His hopes drop. ‘This is Gideon Chase, you just called my mobile.’

‘Mr Chase, thanks for ringing. I called to fix a time for you to see your father’s body.’

The words stun him. He’d been fearing this. She’d even asked him about it. But now it’s come he feels totally unprepared. ‘Right. Thank you.’

‘The funeral director is Abrahams and Cunningham on Bleke Street in Shaftesbury. Do you know where I mean?’

‘No. I’m not local, I don’t know the area at all.’

‘Well, it’s easy to find. It’s on the right, not far down from the Ivy Cross roundabout. They’ve suggested ten a.m. tomorrow. If that’s not suitable, I can give you a number and you can make your own arrangements.’

There isn’t a time on the clock face that seems suitable to see the semi-obliterated body of your father. In true English fashion, Gideon says the opposite of what he’s thinking. ‘Yes, that would be fine.’

‘Good. I’ll confirm with them.’

‘Thanks.’

Megan senses his tension. ‘If you’d like I could get an officer to accompany you. Would that help?’

‘I’ll be okay on my own.’

‘I understand.’ She sounds sympathetic. ‘Call me if you change your mind.’

Gideon hangs up and heads back upstairs.

He re-enters the secret room with a degree of trepidation, worried that the tapes are going to turn out to be pornographic. He tells himself he can live with it. Because it may be worse. It may relate to Nathaniel’s grave-robbing, his tomb-raiding, his highly questionable ‘trade’ in prized artefacts.

He stands for a moment and surveys the room. Years of training have taught him to take in the landscape before you start digging it up. The old saying about needing to know the lie of the land is true in archaeology — the terrain can lie like a faithless lover and lose you years of your life.

He knows that his father was the last person in here before him. The way it is, is how he left it. Generally tidy. Neat, except for a couple of open DVD cases. Orderly. There is a leather desk chair positioned in front of the wall-mounted TV and a low coffee table in the middle of the room. It’s marked with shoe polish on the near side, from where his father must have put his feet while watching the screen. There’s a crystal glass that smells of whisky, but no sign of a decanter or bottle. He suspects the liquor is stashed in one of the built-in cupboards at the bottom of the shelving that fills the room. There are boxes on the back shelves. He wonders how much his father was drinking at the end. Next to the glass is an ancient laptop computer — the type that still takes floppy disks — a notepad and a small and ugly clay pencil holder that he recognises instantly. He made it at school and brought it home for Father’s Day.

He can tell that the room has been used for logging, reviewing and filing. But what? He finds the TV remote control within reaching distance of the chair and turns the set on. Built into the wall beneath it are three shelves, one holding a chunky, near-industrial VHS player, one for a DVD machine and a bottom one that looks like a place to throw junk — cables, open tape boxes and loose coins.

The TV throws up a haze of broken white and black fuzz as it stirs itself. The DVD whirrs into life and fights for channel supremacy. Up on to the screen comes an out-of-focus, grainy picture. It’s a digital copy of old Super 16mm film by the look of it. It sharpens and shows his father reincarnated as a more youthful man, speaking confidently from the stage of a lecture theatre: ‘Stonehenge is a miracle of the ancient world. To build it today, with all of our machinery and mathematical know-how would be impressive. To have begun building it five thousand years ago, without computers, CAD packages, cranes and trucks and barges to carry those monoliths is beyond wonder.’

Gideon is bored already. His childhood had been littered with nonsensical theories about Stonehenge being a temple, a burial place for ancient kings, the world’s first astronomical observatory, a cosmic link to the pyramids in Egypt. And most ignorantly of all, the birthplace of the druids.

He turns off the film and fires up the old VHS machine. It clicks and clunks as the mechanical heads shuffle around and lock on a tape that has been left in there. A big close-up of a beautiful woman’s face appears on screen. Beautiful enough to suck the air from his lungs.

It’s his mother.

She is laughing. Holding her hand up to the camera and looking embarrassed that she’s being filmed. He finds the volume. ‘Turn it off, Nate. I hate that thing, please turn it off.’

Her voice makes him tremble. He can’t help but step forward and put his fingers to the screen.

‘Nate. Enough now!’

The shot pulls wider. Marie Chase sits on a gondola in Venice against a cornflower blue sky. She turns her head from the camera faking annoyance with her husband. Her hair is dark, long and thick — exactly the same texture as Gideon’s — and it is being made to dance on her shoulders by a light summer’s wind. In the background, St Mark’s bobs away as a stripe-shirted boatman punts them across the lagoon. The shot is wide enough now for Gideon to tell that she’s pregnant.

He stops the tape and looks away wet-eyed to the stacked shelves. They’re not all full of home movies, of that he’s sure. The last thing his father watched was his mother because he was reconnecting with happier times, probably the happiest of his life. It’s the kind of thing people do when they’re experiencing the worst of times, the worst of their lives.

Everything on the shelves was important to his father. Important enough to classify and to protect. But not as important as this precious memory of the only woman he really loved.

Gideon walks to the books. They are all red, leather-bound journals, the lineless type favoured by artists and writers. He tries to pull down a volume from the top left-hand corner but the covers are stuck together. He prises them apart.

He opens the book on the first page and reels from another emotional blow. It’s dated the day of his father’s eighteenth birthday.

The handwriting is the same but somehow hesitant:

Gideon finds it too painful to read on. He glances along the rows. Is this stuff in all of them? Every event, emotion and detail of Nathaniel Chase’s great adventure?

He runs a finger along the red spines and counts off the years: his father’s twentieth birthday, his twenty-first, his twenty-sixth — the year he met his wife; his twenty-eighth — the same as Gideon is now; his thirtieth — the year Nathaniel Gregory Chase and Marie Isabel Pritchard married in Cambridge; and his thirty-second — when Gideon was born.

The fluttering fingers stop. He has entered his own space. His eyes drift down to the thirty-eighth year. The year Marie died.

His hands stretch to the slim volume and he begins to lever it out of the vice-like grip of those either side, but he cannot bring himself to remove it. Instead, he jumps on two years. To the fortieth of his father’s life.

He withdraws the diary. Two years after his mother’s death. He feels prepared for whatever the eighth year of his own life has to offer.

Only he isn’t.

It’s not written in English. It’s not written in any recognisable language.

It’s in code.

Gideon pulls out the following year’s book.

Code.

And the year after.

Code.

He rushes to the end of the room and stoops for the final volume. Again he freezes — this book will bear the last entries of Nathaniel Chase’s life.

His heart is like a raging bull butting his rib cage. He swallows hard, lifts the volume from its shelf and opens it.

20

She smells like cinnamon. And she’s high as a kite.

Jake Timberland notes these things as the beautiful American kisses him goodbye on the pavement. She’s maybe twenty-two at most. And it’s not a peck on the cheek. It’s a proper smacker. She holds his face between her manicured fingers and her lips gently touch his. But he lets her make the running.

And she does. A little brush of the tongue — just a glance against the underside of his upper lip. His eyes dance beneath closed lids. She moves back. ‘Bye.’ A smile and she steps away.

‘Wait.’

She smiles again as she folds herself daintily into the back seat of the limo. The black guy with the crocodile hands slams the door shut and shoots him a look that’s more than just a warning; it’s a declaration of war.

Fuck it. Jake squares his shoulders and approaches the tinted rear window. For the second time that evening, a massive hand explodes like a grenade in the middle of his chest, sending him sprawling. The bodyguard slips into the passenger seat and the limo is gone before Jake’s anywhere near getting to his feet. The most beautiful woman he’s ever met has just watched him fall on his butt. Not a good way to end the evening.

He gets a few strange glances as several couples slalom past into the depths of Soho. The pavement is soaked from an earlier downpour and his clothes are now wet. He brushes himself down and digs in his pocket for a handkerchief to wipe the mud and grit from his hands.

Something flutters to the floor. He bends and picks it up. It’s a bar mat, the advertising ripped off, and there’s a message in pen on it: ‘Call me tomorrow on number below x.’ Next to the kiss is a small squiggle of a padlock.

Jake stares at the doodle. He knows it. Jesus. Now he understands what all the security was about.

21

Gideon holds the diary in shaking hands. He sits on the room’s hard floor, rests his back against the shelving, afraid to read. He feels beaten — as though assaulted and battered by some invisible enemy. Floored by the ghost of his father.

He looks up at all the handwritten journals around him — a complete personal history of the father he never knew. And the man wrote more than twenty years of it in code.

Why?

He shakes his head and blinks. Darkness presses like shovelled earth against every pane of glass in the house. He feels entombed. Carefully, he opens the cover and on the right-hand inside page is the inscription: ΓΚΝΔΜΥ ΚΛΥ.

It makes him smile. He runs his fingers over the top of the page and feels himself slipping back to childhood. His father never kicked a football with him, never swung a cricket bat, never took him swimming. But he played mind games with him. Nathaniel spent hours devising puzzles, teasers, problems and games that imbued in him powers of logic and the roots of classical learning.

The letters ΓΚΝΔΜΥ ΚΛΥ are ancient Greek, which his father considered the first true alphabet, the source of European, Latin and Middle Eastern alphabets. And he recognised its importance in mathematics, physics and astronomy. His son was made to learn every letter. To test the boy, and to break the boredom, the professor devised a simple code. The twenty-four letters of the Greek alphabet assumed reverse values to their English equivalents, so Omega represented A and so on until Alpha represented X. The obsolete Greek letters Digamma and Qoppa represented the final English letters Y and Z. For years Nathaniel would leave his son coded notes around the house — until the relationship became too strained for any form of communication.

Gideon struggles to remember the code. It’s been more than fifteen years. Then it comes to him. ΓΚΝΔΜΥ ΚΛΥ means VOLUME ONE. He glances up again at the dozens of books and wonders how many coded words have been written. It could take a lifetime to decipher them all.

A lifetime to translate a lifetime.

He turns another page, and feels queasy. The handwriting is a savage reminder of the suicide note. He tries to make sense of the first paragraph but he is too rusty to get further than a few words. From the low coffee table he picks up some paper and a couple of pens — black and red. He constructs a table, writing the Greek letters on the left and to the right, the English.

Using the table, he scans the opening page and quickly translates ΛΩΕΡΩΛΠΥΝ into NATHANIEL and ΧΡΩΖΥ into CHASE. The journal is written in the first person and contains his father’s day-to-day thoughts.

He flicks through a dozen or so more pages, not looking for anything in particular, fascinated that he can travel backwards or forwards through days, months or years of his father’s life. Halfway through the journal, the writing becomes bolder. The passages look as though they’ve been written with vigour and excitement. Years of speed-reading have trained Gideon’s eyes to hop diagonally down a document in search of key words.

ΖΕΚΛΥΡΥΛΣΥ, ΨΝΚΚΦ and ΖΩΧΗΠΤΠΧΥ leap out at him.

He hopes he’s made a mistake. Prays that tiredness has made him jump to the wrong conclusion. On its own, ΖΕΚΛΥΡΥΛΣΥ may be innocuous enough; he’d expect his father to mention it. It means STONEHENGE.

It’s the other two words that are chilling his soul.

ΨΝΚΚΦ is BLOOD.

And ΖΩΧΗΠΤΠΧΥ is SACRIFICE.

22

Jake Timberland flings his suit in a corner and sits on the edge of his giant black leather bed with built-in fifty-inch plasma and room dimmers. He’s too wired to get any sleep and strangely enough not in the mood to go hunting cute-ass-would-be-wags for the rest of the night. In any case, the date isn’t over. Thanks to his mobile phone, it’s about to go virtual. The beauty of technology.

In his left hand is his iPhone and in his right the piece of paper with the padlock doodle that the American lovely gave him. Caitlyn to be more precise. Caitlyn Lock.

Just being seen within touching distance of ‘The Lock’, as she’s known, could make him an ‘A-Lister’. He reckons that right now she’ll be doing one of three things. She could still be partying, which he doubts because the gorillas probably wouldn’t allow her that much freedom. She could be having a drink with some of the other clean-cut cuties she was hanging with. Possible. Or she could be a good little girl and already in bed. Probable. Whichever it is, she’ll be thinking about him. You don’t kiss someone like she did and then not think about it later.

What he has to do is tap into that. Tap in and stretch it while it’s still fresh. Give himself something to build a little romance on. And the perfect tool to pull off that little trick is sexy texting. Nothing hard core. Just a couple of short notes to say that he can’t stop thinking about her. Start off casual and polite then feel his way in, reveal a little more of his emotions. No point simply gushing it all out on the first message. If you do that, the girl won’t reply, she’ll just leave you hanging on until you try again.

Jake gets typing. Hope you got home ok. It was great to meet you tonight. Jake. No, that’s not good. He rewrites: Hope you got home ok. It was GREAT to meet you tonight. Jake.

Still not right.

He remembers her age. Considerably younger than him. He adjusts again: Hope u r ok. Gr8 2 meet u! Jake x.

He allows himself a satisfied smile and hits send. Phones are terrific. He watches the little virtual envelope on the screen fold itself up, develop wings and then fly off, straight to the heart of the woman he loves. Well yeah, maybe. For now it’s lust, pure and simple. But let’s face it, without that, love probably doesn’t have a chance.

The phone beeps. Wow, she’s replied quickly. Good sign.

U can ring if u want x.

Not what he expected. Not what he wanted either. A little text flirting before turning in for the night was a perfect idea, but a conversation right now could blow things. He thinks. When a girl says you can ring if you want, that’s not a request, it’s an instruction.

Jake pulls off his socks and shirt, grabs a glass of water from the bathroom and climbs in bed. He feels almost panicky as he calls her.

‘It’s Jake. Hi.’

‘Hi there.’ Her voice is soft and a little sleepy. ‘I wondered if you’d ring or text.’

‘Even after you saw me sit down in a puddle?’

She laughs a little. ‘Especially after you dumped your ass in a puddle.’

‘Actually, I didn’t dump my ass — one of your apes did.’

‘That would be Eric. He has a thing for me. I’ve seen him rough guys up much worse. Much, much worse than you got and I didn’t even kiss them.’

‘Remind me not to put Eric on my Christmas card list.’

‘He’s just protective.’

‘So I noticed. Why did you do that?’

‘Do what?’

‘Kiss me.’

‘Ah, that would be because I wanted to.’ Her voice is almost sleepy. ‘And let’s face it, you wanted me to.’

‘I did?’

‘I’ve never seen a man aching so badly to be kissed.’

He laughs. ‘You’ve no idea how much.’

‘Oh, I’ve an idea all right. You were sticking it in my hip. Pretty big clue.’

He feigns shock. ‘Oh my God, was I?’

‘Yeah right, like you didn’t know.’

‘Let’s change the subject before one of us gets embarrassed.’

‘It won’t be me.’

‘I believe you. How do I get to see you again?’

‘Good question.’

‘And?’

‘And you have to be patient. You can use this phone to call me, it’s my own pay-as-you-go, but it may be a while before we can meet up.’

‘What about my aching?’

‘Be inventive. Goodnight.’

The phone goes dead.

He’s left staring at it. Wondering how he’s going to cope with his pounding heart and a hard-on so big he could spin a plate on it.

23

After yesterday’s sleepless night, Megan is relieved to have her daughter tucked up and sound asleep in her own bed tonight. Loath him as she does, Adam had a point. She switches off the bedroom light, closes the door on her already snoring angel and the army of soft toys surrounding her. Sammy’s temperature’s down, she’s less clammy and feverish. Come the morning her little angel may be back to her normal self.

Megan wanders into the open-plan kitchen-lounge of her small cottage and empties the last of a bottle of Chianti into a glass. Maybe she’ll turn on the TV and watch something dull, clear her head of the worries about Sammy, money and the ever-present problem of balancing motherhood and her job.

But the Chase case is bugging her like a wasp. Suicides usually put a gun to their head and mess up the walls for one of three reasons: they can’t live with the guilt and shame of something they’ve done, they’re afraid of something they’ve done being exposed and their personal or private reputation ruined, or they’re desperately ill, either physically or mentally.

Nathaniel Chase doesn’t seem to fit any of those categories. She’s pulled all the background intelligence she can. Bank records, mortgage accounts, stockbroker dealings, everything financial and personal on both father and son. But there are no real clues. Fascinating family — and deceptively wealthy. Or at least now the son is. He’s getting it all, the solicitors told her. From what she can see, that turns out to be more than £20m in property, cars, stocks and savings. As well as the estate and the two cars garaged in it — a seven-year-old Range Rover and a vintage Rolls valued at more than a million — there are paintings and antiques held in vaults, collectively worth in excess of five million. There is Nathaniel Chase’s portfolio of personal investments and private banking matters, all routed through UBS in Switzerland. Another six million. Strangely, UBS didn’t handle his company activities. He left that to Credit Suisse and this year’s figures show a bottom-line profit of more than a million. The old professor owned land across the county too, no doubt of obscure archaeological worth.

Now it’s all Gideon’s.

She looks again at the money trail. If in doubt, follow the cash. If it’s not about sex, it’s about money. If there’s no other explanation, then it’s money. Always money.

Could the son have faked his father’s suicide? He had so much to gain and she knows he’s lying to her. Might explain why he didn’t identify the man who attacked him in his father’s study. Maybe the attacker was an accomplice. Perhaps Gideon Chase is really a murderer and a fraudster?

Then again she could just be very tired and not thinking straight. She gives in and switches on the TV. The X Factor. Fantastic. Utter drivel. Just what she needs to forget about work.

24

It’s the middle of the night and Sean Grabb can’t sleep.

He knows a good rest is a long way off. Years away. He pulls a fresh bottle of vodka from his fridge, unscrews the top and swallows almost a quarter without even getting a glass. He’s not so dumb that he doesn’t understand what’s happening. If any sane man had done half the things he has, they’d be hitting the bottle as well.

That’s how he rationalises it, as he finally gets a tumbler from the loose-hinged cupboard in the tatty kitchen of his terraced home. Some nights the memories are just too much to bear. They hit the back of his retinal screen like the flash frames of a horror film. Tonight is one of those nights. The image of the sacrifice’s smashed skull won’t go away. Nor that of his dull empty eyes or his moon-white, bled-out flesh.

Grabb downs another blast of vodka. It was done for the greater good. He gets that. But it doesn’t stop the horror show rerunning in his head. One blink and he’s back there dealing with the corpse. Dead meat, that’s what Musca had called it. Told him to treat the kid that way. Imagine the body was a rack of lamb, a leg of pork.

They threw the mutilated corpse into the back of Musca’s van and drove out to the abattoir, for which he had keys. The kid weighed a ton as they hoisted him up on to the processing line. Musca dangled him upside down, like a stunned cow, then he slit his throat and drained the last of the blood into a run-off grid.

Grabb can still hear the clank of the chains, the buzz of the electric motor and the ghostly echoes of equipment clunking into life and towing the dead body along the line. Then the monstrous mangling. The decapitation. The organ removal. The skin peeled off by hydraulic pullers. He almost threw up when Musca had to free flesh clogged from the claws of their automated accomplices.

He takes another hit of vodka. But the images stick. They’re clogged in his memory. Stuck as doggedly as the awful clumps of flesh that jammed the process line. He tells himself that the visions will fade but deep down he knows they won’t. They’ll always be there. Now the soft, warm wave is coming. Not fast enough, but it’s coming. He can feel it rolling in. But it won’t wash away the guilt. Or the fear of being caught.

The line stripped the kid’s bones clear of any shred of flesh or evidence that could be used against them or anyone. The advanced meat recovery system at the plant reduced it all to mechanically recovered meat — ready for human or animal consumption. It was so damned efficient it even produced neat packages of bone, lard and tallow. The blood and fecal matter just got dumped, washed away like sewage.

‘No need to worry,’ Musca kept saying. ‘No need to fret.’

But he was worried. Is fretting. Not just about the nightmares. Or the guilt. But that it’s all got to be done again.

Soon.

25

Caitlyn Lock squints through the morning’s bitter yellow haze across the shimmering water of the Thames. She is lying in the warm soft bed at her father’s apartment, just one of his many properties. There is a house in Rome. Another in Paris. And two or maybe three more in Spain and Switzerland. So many she can’t remember. Then there are the places back home: LA, New York, Washington. Pop is famous and loaded. And Caitlyn is on track to become more famous and loaded than he is. Or her mom.

She will talk about her father at the drop of a hat, but not her mother. Oh, no. Mom is out of bounds. Kylie Lock is a minor Hollywood star who walked out on them to set up with her toy boy co-star. Caitlyn can barely give her the time of day, let alone free publicity. If she was honest, maybe she’d admit understanding what she sees in François, a dark-eyed Frenchman who tops six feet and looks like he could model swim shorts.

She gives up hugging the quilt and slips naked out of bed. Hands on hips, she admires herself in the long mirror next to the giant picture window overlooking the London Eye. She turns. Strikes a coy look over her shoulder and completes a three-sixty. Her mom would kill to have a body like this.

She turns sideward, studies the Union Jack tattoo on her behind. No one but her and the tattooist who put it there has seen it yet. She pads over the cream shag pile carpet to the low table with her cellphone on it. She laughs and picks it up. It’s untraceable. Packed with pay-as-you-go credit that no one but she and her girlfriends know about. She turns it on and taps in the pin. While waiting for it to find a network, she looks at her ass again, thinking how hard her pop will kick it if he ever finds out what she’s about to do.

The phone finds a signal and she thumbs her way through to the camera function. It takes a while for her to stop giggling and shoot some pictures. Most are hazy and badly framed — finally she takes one that will do just fine.

She sits on the edge of the bed, brings up Jake’s number and adds a brief message. She hits send and collapses with laughter.

26

Chepstow, Chepstow and Hawks looks more like an antique auctioneers than a law office. A legal professor at Cambridge once told Gideon you can classify the client according to the lawyer he engages and Chepstow and Co. seems to prove his point. Traditional and reliable no doubt, but old-fashioned and dusty. The place fits Nathaniel to a T.

A grey-haired, bespectacled woman in her fifties tells him politely that Mr Chepstow is ready to see him and leads the way to a mahogany-panelled door bearing its occupiers’ brass nameplate. The man rises from behind a squat walnut pedestal desk in the corner, framed by a curtain-less sash window. ‘Lucian Chepstow.’ He thrusts a Rolex-wristed hand from the cuff of a blue pin-striped suit.

‘Gideon Chase. Pleased to meet you.’ He silently curses his automatic politeness.

‘I’m very sorry about your father. Please take a seat.’

Gideon occupies one of two leather library chairs positioned on the near side of the grand desk, while the lawyer, a man in his early forties with grey-white hair, returns to his seat, smoothes down his jacket and sits.

‘Have you been offered tea? Or water?’

‘I’m fine, thanks.’

Chepstow places his hand on the desk phone. ‘Are you sure?’

Gideon’s irritated to be asked twice. He puts his uncharacteristic edginess down to unfamiliarity, the unpleasant circumstances. ‘Thanks, but really I’m fine.’

The door opens. A worn old man lumbers in — shoulders slightly rounded. Unmistakably Lucian’s father, the practice’s founder. ‘Cedric Chepstow,’ he mumbles, almost as though answering a question. Without offering his hand, he takes the chair beside Gideon. ‘I hope you don’t mind my coming in. I want to offer my condolences. I knew your father very well. Splendid fellow. I’ve been his solicitor for twenty years.’

Gideon considers pointing out that Nathaniel never qualified for the title ‘splendid’ but lets it slide. ‘No, not at all. Thank you.’ He adds, almost surprising himself, ‘How well did you know him? What exactly did you do for him?’

The Chepstows exchange glances. The question has clearly thrown them, and that interests Gideon.

‘More professional than personal,’ concedes the old man. ‘We handled all the legal paperwork connected with his businesses — deal memos, contracts, agreements, some import and export documentation, those kind of things. He was one of our major clients.’

‘I’m sure he was.’ It comes out with a little more acid than Gideon intended.

Lucian feels obliged to chip in. ‘Your father was very driven. Very successful, Mr Chase. He was a pleasure to work with.’

Gideon stays focused on Chepstow senior. ‘And personally?’

He purses his dry old lips. ‘I’d like to think we were friends. We shared the same love of history, same respect of generations gone.’

Lucian withdraws an envelope from a drawer in the desk, keen to get on with the business side of the meeting. Gideon isn’t. ‘My father left me a letter.’

The old lawyer flinches.

‘A suicide note. Do you know of anything that would make him take his own life?’

Cedric’s eyes widen.

Gideon looks from one to the other. ‘Can either of you tell me what he might have done, what he was ashamed of that made him feel so desperate and so depressed?’

Chepstow senior plays with a fold of wrinkled flab beneath his double chin. ‘No, I don’t think we can. There isn’t anything. Certainly not legally. Nor could we share such information, even if we knew, because of client confidentiality.’

Now Gideon can’t hide his annoyance. ‘He’s dead. So I presume such confidentiality doesn’t apply.’

The old man shakes his head like a professor about to point out an elementary mistake. ‘That’s not how we work. We respect our bonds to our clients — for ever.’ He looks Gideon up and down. ‘Mr Chase, let me assure you, to the very best of my knowledge — personally and professionally — there is nothing your father should be ashamed of. No skeletons in his closet.’

‘Skeletons?’ Gideon laughs. ‘My father was a grave-robber. He stripped tombs in Syria, Libya, Mexico and god knows where else. He sold historic and irreplaceable objects to foreign governments or private collectors who had no right to them. I’m sure he had a whole necropolis of skeletons to hide.’

Years of experience have taught Cedric Chepstow to know when arguments are winnable and when they are not. ‘Lucian, please inform Mr Chase of his father’s will and ensure he has a copy.’ He creaks his way out of the chair. ‘Good day to you, sir.’

Lucian Chepstow doesn’t speak until his father has left and shut the door behind him. ‘They were close,’ he says. ‘Your father was one of the few mine spent time with.’

Gideon’s still annoyed. ‘Seem like a good pair.’

The timid lawyer doesn’t respond. He passes a sealed letter over the desk and pulls another copy across his red, leather-edged blotter. ‘This is the Last Will and Testament of Nathaniel Chase. It’s witnessed and fully in accordance with English law. Would you like me to talk you through it?’

Gideon takes the envelope in both hands. His mind still on Cedric Chepstow. The old man probably knew what his father was hiding. Why else react like that? Why the resort to ‘confidentiality’, covering himself with the pathetic ‘to the best of my knowledge’?

‘Mr Chase. Would you like me to talk you through the will?’

He looks up and nods.

‘I should warn you that one of his requests is unusual. Your father made pre-death arrangements at the West Wiltshire Crematorium.’

Gideon frowns. ‘That’s unusual?’

‘Not in itself. Many people prepay and prearrange their own funeral requirements. But after cremation at West Wiltshire he wished his ashes to be scattered at Stonehenge.’

27

Jake Timberland saw himself stepping out of the shower this morning and almost died. He dragged the scales from beneath the sink and stepped up to be judged. Fourteen stone. Holy fuck. He stepped off and back on again. It wasn’t a malfunction. At five foot eleven he could carry thirteen but at fourteen, before you know it you look like a fat man’s body double.

His misery morphed into determination. Fifty sit-ups later he could see his six-pack rising through the flab again and felt better.

Now he’s sitting in a winged chair in his club downing the third cappuccino of a breakfast meeting. He’s listening to his guest, Maxwell Dalton, talk about cash-flow problems, the downturn in the economy, a slide in ad revenue and how he needs investment or he could go out of business. Dalton is chubby with big glasses as black as his hair and baggy suit. He runs a website that showcases short films made by the kind of people who can’t get proper jobs in TV.

‘How much do you want and how much do I get in return?’

Dalton laughs nervously. ‘A hundred thousand for 10 per cent?’

Jake’s expression makes it clear that’s not going to work.

‘Twenty per cent?’

He says nothing. His attention is focused on the fried egg on Dalton’s plate.

‘Twenty-five?’ Dalton pleads, then adds, ‘At a push I could go to thirty.’

Jake quite likes the idea of saying he’s in media. No doubt it would increase his pulling power. At a stretch, he could even describe himself as a film producer cum distributor. ‘Maybe we can do a deal. But not at a hundred k and not for thirty per cent.’

Dalton looks disappointed.

A hundred thousand is nothing to Jake. He could even get his old man to stand the whole stash. If not, he could raise it if he cut down on the Cristal, skipped the winter skiing and tanked the overdraft. ‘Listen, Max. I’ll put fifty thousand into your company but for that I want fifty-one per cent of it.’

‘Controlling interest?’

‘Exactly.’

Finally, a glum Dalton spits out a reply, ‘I’m sorry. Forty-nine is really all I’m prepared to go to in terms of equity and for that I’d want seventy-five thousand.’

Jake smiles. ‘I want to help you not fuck you. But that slice is not worth seventy-five. I’ll go to fifty k for forty-nine per cent. Final offer.’

Dalton is in a bad place. With the landlord banging on the door for the rent. ‘All right.’

As Jake stands to shake on the deal, his iPhone buzzes. ‘Excuse me.’ It’s Caitlyn — he instantly recognises her number. He opens the text and when he unzips the picture attachment his eyes nearly pop. Beneath the Union Jack tattoo is: I have the flag. Do you have a pole big enough for it? Call me x.

Jake smiles across the table at Dalton and offers a hand. Could be that he gets to screw two people in one day.

28

Sammy is well enough to go to nursery but Megan’s mum Gloria insists on coming round to look after her granddaughter. For once the DI gets away without a lecture. She’s grateful. After the short drive to Devizes police station, she is at her desk sipping a cup of black tea in the open-plan CID room, reading the full statements of PCs Featherby and Jones.

Gideon Chase is lucky. Very lucky. If the two plods had been more than a village away when the 999 came in, they probably would have arrived too late. Featherby found him unconscious in the hall and managed to drag him outside, before calling the paramedics and fire brigade.

She studies the crime scene photographs, shots of flame-blackened brick walls and burned-out windows. The fire team’s report seems consistent with Chase’s account. No doubt the seat of the blaze was the curtain area of the downstairs study on the west side of the house. No doubt at all. That room and most of the corridor and the adjoining reception area have been gutted. It’ll cost a pretty penny to sort out.

The incident report in her hands says Chase slipped in and out of consciousness until the medics got him into the ambulance and cleared his lungs with pure oxygen. Seems to shoot down her theory that he might have been involved in his father’s death and got an accomplice to fake the attack. Unless of course the accomplice got greedy. In that case, an attempt to kill him would make sense.

But it doesn’t. None of it makes sense.

She puts down the papers and wonders again why Gideon lied to her. He seems decent enough. Intelligent, well turned-out, polite, maybe a bit quirky. But then academics are.

So why lie?

Does he know the man he surprised? Unlikely. Her info says Chase spent most of his childhood at boarding school and his father only moved to Tollard Royal in recent years. Until then they’d lived in more modest accommodation either in the east of Wiltshire or over in Cambridge where Nathaniel was a don.

So why? There are only a few other possibilities. Maybe he’s afraid. Many victims of crime are frightened to identify attackers in case they come back. Or someone else comes back. Fear of being victimised. Makes some sense.

Chase certainly isn’t fearless. Then again, he doesn’t strike her as being particularly afraid either. Not what her mum used to call cowardly custard. There’s another possibility. Maybe he knew the old man was involved in something and it was connected to the intruder at the house. Perhaps Gideon arranged to meet him there, they’d argued, the man threatened or assaulted him, Chase called the police.

It doesn’t fit. She glances down at the report again. There’s no doubt that he was unconscious and left for dead. The man who made the emergency call was calm and composed — not groggy from an assault and with a chest full of smoke.

But she feels close to the truth. Nathaniel Chase was up to something bad. She’s sure of it.

‘Baker!’

Megan looks up from her desk and her heart sinks. DCI Jude Tompkins is heading her way. These days the forty-year-old blonde is certifiably insane. Jumpier than a box of frogs. Her upcoming marriage — her second — is the cause of the manic personality shift.

‘Are you done with that suicide yet, Baker?’ She settles her crash-dieting-behind on the edge of Megan’s desk.

‘No ma’am.’ Megan fans out the PC statements. ‘I’m just going through the reports. There was a fire at the dead man’s house.’

‘I heard. What are we talking, burglars? Squatters?’

The DI explains. ‘The son went back there after we asked him in to talk to us. He found an intruder in the study about ready to torch the place.’

‘What was he, some kind of a junkie?’

‘We don’t know. He knocked our man unconscious and left him for dead. If a local patrol hadn’t been around the corner, the Chase family line would have come to a complete end in just forty-eight hours.’

Tompkins takes it in. Unsolved burglary, arson and attempted murder are not what she wants on her crime sheets. The whole division is under pressure to improve the figures. ‘I get that it’s more complicated than I thought. Can you juggle another case as well as this one?’

It’s not really a question. The DCI drops the file on Megan’s desk. ‘Sorry. It’s a missing person. Give it a look over for me.’

She watches the DCI turn and leave. Delegation is a wonderful thing. You just shift your garbage to someone else’s bin and leave them to jump on the lid until they get it to fit. ‘Boss, any chance of an extra pair of hands?’ she calls.

Tompkins stops and turns. A smile on her big round face.

Megan knows it’s hard to turn down a plea for help in an open office. She gives the DCI a desperate look. ‘Just for a day or two?’

Tompkins beams. ‘Jimmy Dockery. You can have Sergeant Dockery for forty-eight hours, then he’s back on vice.’

Megan shuts her eyes. Jimmy Dockery? She puts her hands over her ears, but it makes no difference. She can still hear the whole office laughing.

29

The Henge Master has been expecting the call.

It was simply a matter of when. He excuses himself and steps away from the highly distinguished company. He has two phones in his pocket. A BlackBerry that he uses publicly and a cheap Nokia that is a ‘burner’, a no-contract, non-traceable phone with credit he can purchase almost anywhere. He takes out the Nokia. It’s Cetus.

‘Can you speak?’

‘Wait a moment.’ The Master walks into an open courtyard. ‘Go on.’

‘The Chase boy has just come in for his father’s will.’

The Master searches a jacket pocket for his cigarettes. ‘And?’

‘He was asking what Nathaniel might have been ashamed of.’

‘He used that word, did he? Or is it your interpretation of what he said?’

‘He used it. He told Lupus that he’d been left some kind of letter. Apparently, the police recovered it from the scene.’

The Master lights a Dunhill with a gold monogrammed lighter. ‘What’s in it? Some form of accusations or confession?’

Cetus tries to allay his fears. ‘Nothing so drastic. If there had been anything explicit in there, no doubt the gentlemen of the constabulary would be camped in my office asking awkward questions.’

The Master blows out smoke and looks across the courtyard. ‘But they have been in touch. You said so and Grus says some DI thinks she’s got herself something of a case.’

‘That’s true but it’s routine. They found invoices in Nathaniel’s study and wanted to know if we still acted for him. And don’t worry about the DI.’

‘I shan’t.’ The Master paces a little. ‘From what Nathaniel told me, they had a fractured relationship. Unfortunately, his son is unlikely to be our friend.’

‘That would fit with his behaviour at my office.’

The Master thinks for a few moments. ‘A shame. Given his father’s contribution to the Craft, he’d have been an asset. Did the police ask about the will?’

‘Of course.’

‘And presumably he gets everything?’

‘Everything.’

‘You must have done well out of this fee-wise.’

Cetus is offended. ‘I treated Nathaniel well. He was a friend, remember.’

The Master berates himself. A crass remark. ‘Forgive me, I shouldn’t have made light of the situation.’ He looks to a junior colleague at the edge of the courtyard pointing to his watch. ‘I’m going to have to go.’

‘Are you thinking of postponing?’

‘We can’t.’ The Master takes a final draw on the cigarette before dropping it and grinding it into the gravel. ‘The divination is clear. The completion must be at midpoint between evening twilight on solstitium and morning twilight of the day after, or it has no meaning.’

Cetus is quiet and the Master senses something. ‘We will be ready with the second offering, won’t we?’

‘We will. All will go as planned. But what of Chase the Younger?’

The Master nods at the colleague hovering not far away. He silently mouths that he’ll only be another minute. After the man is gone, he concludes the call: ‘I will have the son taken care of. Just make sure the other arrangements go as planned.’

30

Caitlyn’s instructions were clear. Rent a room. Chill a bottle of champagne. Put two tubs of Ben & Jerry’s in the minibar — any flavour except Cake Batter. Run a bath — three quarters full. No smelly stuff — just water, hot water. Bring protection. Non-flavoured and ribbed. At least five. Make sure there’s plenty of dope and ecstasy.

Caitlyn is plainly used to getting whatever she wants. Fine by him. At least there’s no mistaking what this get-together is going to be about. No need for small talk, no painful progressing from kiss to fumble to hopefully much more. He has cancelled everything he had planned for the rest of the day. Which wasn’t that much.

He has little problem getting the stuff. He already has a block of Lebanese Black and a few days’ worth of Es and he picks up the ice cream and a couple of bottles of Louis Roederer Cristal in the Food Hall at Selfridge’s. Then he drives over to Hyde Park and books a suite at Été, a discreet boutique hotel noted for its French cuisine. Even he considers arguing over the thousand-pound room tariff — then he remembers that he’s now in the media and is about to bed a celebutante.

The suite turns out to be almost worth it: a king-size bed draped in a golden quilt, heavy matching window curtains lined in burnt orange and tied back to reveal a small terrace and some white metal seating. He draws the curtains and lights the Egyptian-style pot lamps either side of the bed.

He plugs his iPod into a docking station. What to put on? The sudden question scares him. You can tell a lot about a person from their choice of music. He wheels through some of his later downloads and settles on Plan B’s The Defamation of Strickland Banks. ‘Love Goes Down’ is coming to an end when there’s a rap on the door.

It’s smack on two p.m. He was sure she was going to be late. He was wrong. He opens the door. She’s carrying a light-cream coat over her arm and wearing a near-translucent gathered-sleeve tea dress. ‘Don’t just stare, let me in!’

He steps aside. ‘Sorry, you just look so …’ He realises she’s worried about being seen and shuts the door quickly. ‘… beautiful.’ As he turns she’s right next to him. She drops the coat and a small matching handbag and kisses him. It’s like being gently electrified. Flows all the way through him. This is already about more than the great sex he knows is going to follow.

Caitlyn breaks for air and smiles. ‘I have an hour. That’s all. Sixty minutes. Let’s get started.’

31

Detective Sergeant Jimmy Dockery is Wiltshire’s Horatio Caine. Or so he thinks. He speaks slower than a dying man with asthma and even on the dullest days wears sunglasses. The kind that went out of fashion with Top Gun.

Bullied as a kid, the ginger whinger got his own back by becoming a cop. The only problem is, unlike the CSI: Miami lieutenant, he’s not a hot shot. He’s not even a lukewarm shot. But he is the Deputy Chief Constable’s son and everything pales into a ginger fuzz after that single fact.

‘I heard you need help, Detective Inspector.’ He hovers over her shoulder, then slides into a seat alongside and flashes his best smile. ‘Glad to be of service.’

Megan feels a shiver of revulsion. ‘Thanks, Jimmy.’ She pulls over some stapled statements and a thick file. ‘This is background on the Chase suicide. You know about that, don’t you?’

He looks blank.

She resists screaming. ‘Professor Nathaniel Chase, international author, archaeologist, antiquities trader, has a place out on Cranborne Chase, at Tollard Royal where the rich folk live.’

‘Oh, yeah, I know who you mean.’

She knows he doesn’t but ploughs on. ‘Google him, and there’s background on him in here, as well as the suicide.’ She opens the file and points out a list of contact numbers. ‘This is the mobile number of Gideon Chase, Nathaniel’s son. He has asked to see the body. Would you mind making sure he’s dealt with sympathetically?’ She wonders if Jimmy’s repertoire stretches that far.

‘Consider it done.’ He smiles broadly and widens his eyes. It’s a little trick he’s picked up. A dead certain way of letting her know that’s he is more than just willing to do his duty at work.

She can’t believe he’s hitting on her. ‘What are you waiting for, Jimmy?’ She tilts her head. Much as she might study a strange insect that’s appeared from beneath a rock. ‘Apparently, I only have the pleasure of your company for two days, so now is a really good time to get started.’

He takes the hint, walks away with a backhanded wave. ‘Later, boss.’

Megan unclenches her fists. She has to learn to relax. Not suffering fools is one thing, wanting to crack them in the nose is another. She makes black tea in the small kitchen area off the main office and comes back to her desk just in time to catch the phone ringing. She spills some of the hot drink on the paperwork in the rush to grab it. ‘DI Baker. Damn.’

There’s a hesitation on the line before the caller answers. ‘This is PC Rob Featherby from Shaftesbury. My sergeant said I should call.’

‘Sorry, Rob, I just spilled something. Give me a sec.’ She shifts the paperwork away from the spreading dark puddle and blots it with tissues from her bag. ‘Back with you. Apologies again, what were you saying?’

‘Myself and PC Jones turned out to that burglary over in Tollard. I had the control room call you — they did, didn’t they?’

‘They did. Many thanks. How’s your colleague?’

‘He’s fine. Lost his voice for a bit. Which was no bad thing.’

She laughs. Like most coppers, black humour is what keeps her sane. ‘I just read your report. Very thorough. If we ever get this on Crimewatch, they should book you.’

He’s flattered. ‘Thanks. I try to remember as much as possible.’

‘How can I help?’

‘Are you still interested in the case? The break-in I mean, I know you’re investigating the suicide.’

‘What have you got?’

‘Well, the scenes of crimes mob lifted some good sets of footprints from the lawn and soil beds this morning and they match prints inside the house.’

‘Excellent.’ Her optimism gets the better of her. ‘Have you got a suspect?’

He laughs. ‘We wish. It gets better though. The offender left behind a canvas bag, a sort of break-in kit. It’s filled with tools.’

‘Rob, I’m about forty miles from the Chase estate. Do you think you could meet me over there in, say, two hours’ time? I’d really like you to walk me through where things were found, what you think happened.’

‘I’ll have to check with my sergeant but I don’t see why not. If there’s a problem, I’ll call you back. Okay?’

‘Fine. Thanks.’ She hangs up. She’s glad of the chance to see Gideon Chase again — the opportunity to find out why he’s lying.

32

The hour is up. Caitlyn is dressed and at the door ready to leave.

She got everything she wanted. The guy is cute. Obedient. A pretty good lay. Granted, he could learn to be a bit more patient but that’s a lesson all men could do with attending a few boot camps on.

Jake hasn’t bothered getting dressed. He’s slung on a white towelling robe. He’ll step in the shower when she’s gone. Or maybe he’ll keep the smell of her on him all day. He approaches her, his eyes still hungry. ‘Do I get a kiss goodbye?’ He pops an ecstasy tablet on to the tip of his tongue.

She steps forward and smooches it off him, a reward for his attentiveness. She swallows and steps back a pace. ‘If only they made Es that tasted like Ben & Jerry’s.’

‘Everyone would be high all the time.’

‘Exactly.’

‘So you liked the Cherry—’

She interrupts. ‘What wasn’t there to like. You did well.’

He smiles. ‘And when might I get the chance to do well again?’

‘Don’t get clingy. I can’t do clingy.’

He looks taken aback.

‘Same time, same place, next week. You book. Get everything the same again, only I’ll pay. Okay?’

Now he feels cheap. ‘That’s not necessary. What about a more regular date? A movie, a club, dinner. You do that kind of shit, don’t you?’

She breaks up laughing. ‘Man, you’ve no idea the hell my father would put you through before you even got to buy me coffee.’

He goes silent on her.

She buttons her coat. ‘Look, I have to go. Same time next week?’

He nods.

‘For what it’s worth, I like you. Let’s see how next week goes. Then we can talk about whether we risk the wrath of Daddy for the sake of dinner or a cup of coffee.’

He has nice crinkly lines in the corner of his eyes and a really friendly smile. She gives in to a moment of softness and puts her hands around the back of his neck, kisses him in a way she hasn’t kissed another man. Relaxed. Non-urgent, non-demanding. Intimate.

It shocks her. ‘I have to go.’

Jake barely has time to open his eyes before she’s clicked open the door and is down the corridor. ‘Hey!’

She turns her head.

‘I’m going to surprise you.’ He makes a pretend phone out of his thumb and little finger and holds it to his right ear. ‘Listen for your mobile. Be ready for my message.’

33

Megan draws her Ford alongside the patrol car parked outside the gates of the Chase estate and winds down the passenger window. ‘I guess you’re Rob Featherby?’

A good looking dark-haired man in his early twenties smiles across at her. ‘I am. I just arrived myself. Shall we drive on up?’

She gestures towards the house. ‘Lead the way.’

The PC gives her a playful look, starts the engine and heads off.

They park behind an Audi in the drive and step out into warm sunshine. Featherby brings a thick envelope with him packed with photographs of evidence recovered from the scene.

Megan presses the buzzer and raps the heavy doorknocker for good measure. After close to a minute, she looks towards the A4. ‘He must be in, that’s his vehicle.’

The PC gives the bell another long ring. As he takes his finger off the button, the door opens. Gideon Chase holds it and peers through a foot-wide gap. He looks pale, shaken.

‘Sorry to have to trouble you,’ Megan says. ‘We need to ask a few more questions.’

Gideon can’t face it. ‘It’s not convenient.’ He starts to shut the door.

She puts her foot against it. ‘This is PC Featherby. You have met, though you don’t remember it. He dragged you out of the fire the other night.’

The revelation pulls Gideon up short. He marshals his manners and extends a hand. ‘Thank you. I’m most grateful.’ He glances at her and reluctantly opens the door wide. ‘Best go right through to the back. The kitchen’s the only place I’ve got to know so far.’

They head in as he closes the door. His head is screaming from decoding several diaries and he really doesn’t want them here.

‘Big kitchen!’ Megan shouts, trying to alter the mood. She runs a hand over an old Aga. The only thing missing is femininity. There are no curtains, vases, casserole pots or stacks of spices. It’s been reduced to the worst thing she can think of — functional masculinity.

Gideon joins them. ‘I’m a little embarrassed.’ He looks towards Featherby. ‘You should at least be able to offer the man who saved your life a cup of tea or coffee but I’m afraid there’s no milk. I can do black, if that’s any good?’

‘I’m okay, thanks,’ says the PC.

‘I’m fine as well,’ Megan adds.

Gideon folds his arms defensively. He leans against the cupboards and tries to look bright. ‘So how can I help you?’

She notices his red eyes and presumes stress is starting to take its toll. ‘Forensics from Rob’s station found quite a bit of evidence in relation to the break-in. I’ve asked him to walk me through it, so I can best assemble a profile of the offender. Is it okay with you if we do that?’

He looks helpless. ‘Of course. What do you want me to do?’

‘Nothing.’ She tries to be gentle. ‘We just need access to the study, that side of the house and the gardens. Do we have your permission to do that?’

He’d rather they didn’t but doesn’t feel like he can object. ‘Sure. I’m just sorting some of my father’s things upstairs; please shout if you need me.’

She nods. ‘Thanks. We will.’

He wanders off, feeling like he’s being banished.

Featherby leads the way to the burned-out study. Megan looks at the blackened walls, ceiling and floor. ‘What a mess.’ The place stinks of the fire. ‘You say the source of the blaze was around the curtains and desk?’

He circles a hand around a coal-black spot on the floor. ‘Right about here. That’s what the chief fire investigator said.’

She makes mental notes. The offender did this in the study, not the lounge. It was premeditated. He was searching for something and either found it and burned it, or ran out of time. If the latter, he wanted to make sure no one else discovered what he couldn’t. ‘Any accelerant used? Any petrol or oil from the kitchen?’

Featherby shakes his head. ‘Not that I was told of.’

She steps into the corridor and shouts up the stairs. ‘Gideon! Do you have a minute?’

The archaeologist hangs his head over the banister.

‘Was your father a smoker?’

He thinks for a second. ‘No. I don’t think so. From what I can remember he was strongly against.’ He gives a resigned look. ‘It’s possible he started in the last few years, after I lost touch, but I think that’s unlikely. Anything else?’

She smiles up at him. ‘No, not for now.’

He disappears and she returns to the study. The constable looks at her for an explanation. She takes time out to educate him. ‘The offender is a smoker. He used his own lighter, a disposable BIC. The son said he saw one in the intruder’s hand before he accosted him in here. This person’s not an arsonist, has never committed arson before. Had he been, he’d have used an accelerant. He’s also unlikely to have a criminal record but given the way he disabled your partner, he may well be ex-services.’

Featherby is fascinated. ‘How can you be sure?’

‘I can’t. That’s why I said not likely. Use your common sense though. This is what in profiling is called a mixed scene — some of the job was highly professional and some total bungle. You go breaking the law and you need an element of luck to keep things as you planned, otherwise you’re off script and then anything goes. This offender didn’t get any good luck. The householder came back while he was torching the place, caught him unawares, called the cops and almost trapped him in a burning room. At that point the guy acted off script and was thinking only about survival and escape, hence why he disabled but didn’t kill PC Jones and forgot the tool bag.’

Featherby’s seen enough burglaries and car break-ins to know she’s making sense.

Megan’s not finished. ‘Arson wasn’t the original intention. It was an afterthought. He was looking for something, something that presumably he didn’t find.’

‘So why set the fire?’

She thinks. ‘So no one else could find it. Meaning whatever it is, threatens him or whoever he’s working with.’

Featherby nods towards the hall and staircase. ‘Did he give you a description?’

She screws up her face. ‘Don’t even go there. He couldn’t remember a thing about the way the man looked.’

‘Pity.’

‘Forget it for now. Concentrate on the offender. As well as not having a criminal record, he’s not too bright. But he is bold. It takes balls to break into a house, especially one where someone’s just died. So let’s presume our individual is confident, strong and relatively mature. I guess he’s thirty to forty-five years old, works doing some kind of physical labour. Given that only about six per cent of Wiltshire is ethnically diverse, we can assume he’s white.’

The PC puts it together. ‘White male, manual worker, thirty to forty-five, smoker, no criminal record. That’s amazing, given that you’re just looking at a burned-out room.’

She almost starts explaining that the room is the last thing she’s looking at. What she’s really studying is the invisible clues that all offenders leave about their behaviour.

‘What do you think is the guy’s connection to the deceased?’

She takes a beat. ‘Smart question. And if we crack it, we solve all the mysteries of this case.’

‘But there is a connection, right?’

‘At least one. Probably several.’

He looks confused.

Megan explains. ‘The intruder may have professional links to the deceased. He might be a gardener, window cleaner, car mechanic. He probably knew the professor because he regularly did jobs for him or delivered to his house. That would also make him more confident about coming up here and breaking in. But I think he may also have known Nathaniel Chase because he was mixed up in whatever the old man was.’

‘I don’t get it.’

She expands. ‘Chase had a lot of money. Too much for a man like him. He was dirty, I’m sure of it. The only question is, what kind of dirt?’

Sitting at the top of the stairs, Gideon feels like someone’s stabbed a pin in his heart. But deep down he knows she’s right. His father was involved in something bad. Bad enough to keep secret.

34

Just before midnight they come for him.

They move quickly and don’t speak. There’s no going back now. Lee Johns will soon be known only as Lacerta. But the change of name is going to be painful. He’s been blindfolded and driven for miles in preparation. He’s about to be initiated.

He has earned the right to know of the Sanctuary’s existence but it will be some time before he is entrusted with its location. The strong hands of unseen men lead him through the Descending Passage and into an antechamber. Still blindfolded, he is stripped and washed, led naked to the Great Room. It is vast. Cavernous. More than a hundred square metres. So high, the ceiling is invisible, a black shroud somewhere up above.

The smell of hundreds of burning candles fills the cool air. Fear and nakedness heighten his senses. The stone slabs beneath his feet feel as hard and cold as ice.

The Henge Master raises a hammer, a symbol of the craft of the ancients who created the resting place of the Sacreds and the Sanctuary. He looks across the congregation and lets it fall. A gigantic marble block is pushed across the single entrance and seals the chamber.

‘Let the eyes of the child be opened.’

The blindfold is removed. The initiation has begun.

Lee’s heart pounds. He is in an entirely circular room. Through blinking eyes he sees in front of him a life-size replica of Stonehenge. It is complete. As perfect as it was on the day it was finished. At the centre is a cloaked and hooded figure, his face covered in shade and unrecognisable.

The Henge Master speaks: ‘Behold the embodiment of the Sacreds. The divinities rested here centuries ago, when our forefathers, the founding Followers, built this cosmic circle and this Sanctuary. In here, you are in their presence. Out of respect, once initiated, you will ensure your head is always covered and your eyes always lowered. Do you understand?’

He knows how to respond. ‘Yes, Master.’

‘You are brought before us because you are deemed fit by members of our Craft to become a lifelong Follower. Is that your will?’

‘Yes, Master.’

‘And are you ready to pledge your life, your soul and your loyalty to the Sacreds and to those who protect them?’

‘Yes, Master.’

‘The Sacreds renew us only as long as we renew them. We honour them with our flesh and blood and in return they protect and renew our flesh and blood. Do you pledge your flesh and blood to their immortal holiness?’

‘Yes, Master.’

From behind him, incense begins to burn inside handheld copper thuribles swung on heavy chains. The air fills with the smells of sweet spices, onycha and galbanum. The Henge Master spreads his arms wide. ‘Bring he who wishes to Follow to the Slaughter Stone.’

Lee Johns is led through the circle to the stone. He feels an urge to look at those around him. Sean warned that he must not do this, must not look into the face of any of those inside the Great Room, especially that of the Master.

A voice in his ear tells him to kneel. The floor is bone hard. Hands force him flat. Four Followers fasten his ankles and wrists, spread-eagling him across the mottled Slaughter Stone. The Henge Master moves close, followed by five incense swingers, all members of the Inner Circle. ‘Do you believe in the power of the Sacreds and all who follow them?’

‘Yes, Master.’

‘Do you trust unquestionably and unhesitatingly in their power to protect, to sustain and to heal?’

‘Yes, Master.’

‘Do you dedicate your life to their service?’

‘Yes, Master.’

‘And do you swear upon your life and the lives of all members of your family and those you hold dear never to speak of the Craft outside of your brotherhood unless given permission to do so?’

‘Yes, Master.’

The incense burners swing their thuribles in a series of circles over his tethered limbs and torso, then step away. The Henge Master holds a long dark blade fashioned from razor-sharp stone cut from the first trilithon of the henge. ‘I draw this human blood, flesh and bone in the hope that you will accept him as one of your servants and will afford him your protection and blessings. Sacred Gods, I humbly beg you to find a space in your affections for our brother.’ He moves to the Slaughter Stone and slashes cuts from wrist to shoulder, from ankle to top of the leg, and from neck to the base of the spine.

Lee tenses. The wave of shock hits him. He fights not to scream. A blast of adrenalin overwhelms the pain. He feels a hot scratch that becomes a burn, then an ache as the mutilation progresses across his body.

The bleeding lines of flesh create a star shape beneath the eyes of those looking on. They’ve endured the same ritual, the same naked humiliation. They know the pain that he is about to endure.

The Henge Master kneels. From beneath his cloak he recovers the ceremonial hammer. He puts the stone blade to the initiate’s skull.

‘With the blood we shed for you, we add the flesh and bone that proves our loyalty and devotion.’

The Henge Master swings the heavy hammer and sees it connect with the knife’s butt. The blade slices free a piece of scalp and skull.

Now he screams.

Darkness grabs him and holds him tight.

By the time Lee Johns recovers consciousness, the Great Room is empty. He lies where he was, still tied, face down. The marble block has once more sealed the chamber. He knows his fate.

35

It’s a cloudless morning, the start of what weathermen predict will be the warmest day of the year so far. Megan smothers Sammy in factor-thirty, puts the tube in her lunch bag, drives her to nursery.

She’s keen to get to work and draw up an offender profile of the burglar at Tollard Royal. The trip there yesterday provided a rich source of psychological clues — most based on the physical evidence Rob Featherby and the Shaftesbury crime team had gathered from the scene.

The first thing she does when she reaches her desk is review the evidence list: (1) Bag of tools discovered near back wall of garden. (2) Blood found on broken glass of greenhouse. (3) Small piece of cloth found on wild rose bushes. (4) Disposable cigarette lighter recovered from ground near molehills. (5) Footprints taken from soil beds, lawn and house.

Megan takes it in reverse order. The footprints are a size-ten trainer, brand to be determined. That’s a full size larger than the average UK male, giving an indication — though no guarantee — that the owner is above the average male height of five feet nine inches. She guesses he’s around five-eleven. There’s also the indentation in the soil beds. In several places he’d been on the flat of his feet, as well as on his heels. These were deep impressions, signs of slipping or being off balance. Likely he was having difficulty because of how dark it was. Or maybe he was carrying a little too much weight to make a perfectly agile burglar. At five-eleven the average male weighs about thirteen stone. She hedges her bets and puts the intruder at around thirteen and a half. That kind of weight and height mean he’ll probably have a forty-two-inch chest and thirty-six or thirty-seven-inch waist. The size is important because he may well have thrown away the clothes or even given them to a charity shop as many offenders do.

Megan considers the disposable lighter. Highly likely it’s the one the man had. She has got to trust Gideon Chase’s vision on this point at least. No mileage in not doing so. It’s a multicoloured Christmas edition BIC. Given it’s now June, it might indicate that the guy is only an occasional smoker. Or it could be that he bought it in a multipack, these things often come in threes. That would make him more regular. She hopes his fingerprints are on it. Even if he used gloves in the house, the wheel and other parts of it could produce latents.

Third on the list is a small piece of fabric recovered from the rose climber. It’s 100 per cent black cotton but according to PC Featherby, forensics got excited because the colour is so strong. They believe it’s new or at worst has been washed only a couple of times. Megan’s more cautious. It could have been bought months ago and left in a drawer. Still, there was a good chance of tracing the owner if it had been bought new.

The blood on the greenhouse is being analysed, but already she knows from the lab that it’s Rh (D) O+, the same as almost forty per cent of the country. Tox tests may provide clues to drug addiction or undue alcohol consumption.

She takes a hungry chew of an energy bar and wonders what it’s supposed to taste of. She guesses chalk and soot. Amazingly the label purports it to be Chocolatey Bliss. She wolfs it and moves on to consider the most impressive of the physical finds. The bag of tools.

Megan has seen several burglary kits in her time. Usually they contain glass breakers, tape and lightweight blankets to help get through windows without too much noise or injury. Often there are extra sacks in which to stow stolen goods and spare surgical gloves to prevent fingerprints. Heavier mobs bring along bolt-cutters, lump hammers and steel chisels to get through safes. Some carry blow torches and even plastic explosives.

Not this guy. He brought a crowbar, screwdrivers, a lump hammer, some kind of metal spike with a handle on it, duct tape and a lethal-looking axe. It confirms her suspicions that he’s not a professional. It also tells her that he probably didn’t have long to plan for the job, he just grabbed what he had in his tool shed or garage.

She wonders what the urgency was. Why move so quickly, so recklessly? Because someone had told him to? Forced him to? The absence of other bags indicates that he didn’t go with the intention of stealing multiple items. He was after one or maybe two specific things.

She looks again at the photographs Rob Featherby gave her. The axe is the most interesting. It’s not for chopping wood, that’s for sure. It looks like an expensive piece of kitchen equipment. She can’t tell without seeing it for real but it could be a boning cleaver. Maybe the guy works in a kitchen.

She turns her thoughts to how he escaped. Greenhouse racking was found up against a back wall that led to a scrub of public land and then a B-road. The thick overgrown grass had been trampled. Mud in the road showed several sets of tyre tracks. It all means he had good local knowledge. He knew where to park out of sight and was comfortable that the road didn’t have a high volume of passing traffic.

Megan nails him down as ex-military, moderately intelligent, not university material. A mixed offender: one who showed signs of organisation and planning but also a serious lack of ability to carry them through. She summarises the profile:

Megan hesitates before adding another line, a final word: ‘Ruthless.’

She’s sure the offender isn’t a regular burglar or robber, but he didn’t hesitate to choke a policeman unconscious and left Gideon Chase to die in a fire.

Whoever he is, he’ll kill rather than be caught.

36

The screech of wild geese wakes Gideon.

He’s groggy and his whole body aches as he makes his way to the bathroom. Through a window he watches four of the birds fighting for territory around the garden’s small lake. Flapping and flying at each other in full beak-to-beak combat. After an ear-piercing cry, the loser and its mate flutter away low over the surrounding fields.

He investigates the old showerhead over the rust-stained enamel bath. It is coked up with limescale, yet although the pipes cough and wheeze, it runs surprisingly fast. No shampoo, but there is a bar of soap on the sink. He takes it, climbs into the tub and pulls the flimsy plastic curtain around him to catch the erratic spray.

The hot water feels good. It eases some of the tension in his shoulders as he remembers what he’d discovered in the journals he’d read late last night.

Thirteen months after the death of his mother, his father joined the Followers of the Sacreds. At first Gideon thought this was some kind of local historic society. Only it wasn’t. It turned out to be something very different. He reasoned his father took some desperate spiritual comfort from the stones, much in the way that many grieving people do from the church. Nathaniel called them ‘Sacreds’ and came to regard each rock as a touchstone, a source of help. His writings detailed how one stone could give spiritual renewal and banish depression, while another could provide physical strength and resilience. And there were others.

Gideon’s amused at the thought of Stonehenge as some kind of magical aromatherapy circle. Who’d have thought that his much-published brilliant father would have believed such a thing? Marie’s death must have driven him off the rails. That would explain things.

The hot water suddenly runs cold. He clambers out of the tub and grabs a hard grey towel. He dries and puts his old clothes back on. They smell of smoke from the fire but he can’t bring himself to go through his dead father’s wardrobes and drawers, not even for underwear.

Downstairs, he finds an opened box of Bran Flakes but no milk. He pours a handful into a cup and dry chews his way through them while looking out the kitchen window. Several pheasants strut by as though they own the place, glancing at him as they go about their business. He finishes the meagre breakfast, grabs a glass of tap water and takes it back upstairs.

Books are strewn all over the place but he’s in no mood to tidy. All he wants to do is read. Devour the text until he can make some sense of it all. He picks up last night’s final volume and follows the decoded notes he made in pencil above his father’s writing:

The ways of the Craft are wonderfully simple. Divinely pure. Our ancestors were right. There is not one single god. There are many. No wonder the leaders and followers of every religion fervently believe that they alone have discovered the Messiah. They have merely discovered one Messiah. They have stumbled upon spiritual trace evidence of the Sacreds — of lives the Sacreds have touched — of gifts they have given.

It is a shame that these followers pray so indiscriminately to their particular gods. If only they knew their deity was capable of delivering a single specific blessing alone. Man’s desire to monopolise religion has closed his mind to its multifarious benevolence.

Gideon tries to stay open-minded. Evidently, his father believed that the stones were vessels. Houses for the Gods. Was it so mad? Billions of people have believed similar things: that gods live in their places of worship, that they hover mysteriously in golden tabernacles on high altars, or that they can be conjured up by ritualised gestures or mass prayers. He guesses his father’s beliefs are no more ridiculous.

He looks down at the book in his hands and the dark ink from his father’s pen. The page has physically absorbed the man’s inner thoughts. Even decades after they were written, the words convey something that he can’t quite grasp — an emotional contact with his father. It’s almost like he’s touching him.

Gideon wonders if that’s what happens when you touch the stones? Do you absorb thoughts and feelings, wisdom, from people who lived long before you — the wisest of the ancients — people so great that they were considered to be gods?

Only now when the notion of the Sacreds doesn’t seem so insane, does he return to the words that troubled him.

ΨΝΚΚΦ.

Blood.

ΖΩΧΗΠΤΠΧΥ

Sacrifice.

Only now does he dare read the entry in full:

Gideon’s shocked to see himself mentioned. But not as shocked as when he reads on:

37

‘Have you found my missing person, yet?’ DCI Jude Tompkins bowls the question down the corridor to Megan Baker, who is skittled while carrying a cup of tea from the pantry area back to her desk.

‘No ma’am. Not yet.’

‘But you’re doing it, right? You’ve been through the file I gave you and you have some leads?’ She gestures grandly in the air. ‘And I’m absolutely sure that you’ve also already contacted his family and got your hands on at least one photograph.’

Megan ignores the sarcasm. ‘Ma’am, I’m still working the Nathaniel Chase case.’

‘I know. I’m not Alzheimic. I recall with total clarity that you’re also working the missing person case I gave you — so work it.’ She gives a caustic stare and veers off towards her own office.

Megan curses. She walks to her desk, slops hot tea from the flimsy plastic cup on to her fingers, and curses again. She wipes her hands on a tissue and flips open the MP file her boss dumped on her. She’d been hoping to sub-dump it on Jimmy Dockery but he’s gone AWOL.

She reads through the summary: the twin sister of some twenty-five-year-old bum called Tony Naylor has reported him missing. Several times by the look of things. Naylor is unemployed, has an alcohol dependency problem and appears to make a bit of cash-in-hand labouring on building sites.

He’s a typical drifter, the hand-to-mouth kind. No mum and dad. No fixed abode. Just wanders around drawing benefits and working on the quiet. A ghost in the machine. She reads on. The only regular contact he seems to have is with the sister, Nathalie. He calls her — reverse charge — once a week.

Megan looks for a number, dials it and lets it ring.

‘Hello.’ The voice is hesitant.

‘Miss Naylor?’

‘Who is it?’

‘This is DI Baker from Wiltshire Police. I’m following up on reports you made about your missing brother.’

‘Have you found him?’

‘I’m afraid not. That’s not why I’m calling. Do you have a few minutes to talk?’

The young woman lets out a frustrated sigh. ‘I’ve already gone through everything. I’ve given all the details to the policemen at my local station. Why don’t you talk to them?’

‘I’m from CID, Miss Naylor, you spoke to uniformed officers.’

‘Oh, I see.’ She seems to understand the distinction. ‘All right then. What do you want to know?’

‘When did you last talk to him?’

‘Three weeks ago.’

Megan checks her notes. ‘I’m told he usually rings you every week.’

Nathalie corrects her. ‘Not usually. Always. He never forgets to ring me.’

‘Do you know where he was and what he was doing work-wise when he last called you?’

Nathalie hesitates. ‘Listen, I don’t want to get Tony in trouble. Can I tell you something without it affecting his benefits?’

Megan knows better than to make deals. ‘Miss Naylor, you called us because you were worried. I can’t help find your brother unless you’re honest with me.’

There’s a pause, then Nathalie opens up: ‘When I last spoke to him he said he’d been in Swindon. Helping out some Paddies, I think. Digging and cementing and such like. He said it was a job somewhere over near Stonehenge. He fancied going, he said, because he’d never seen the place.’

‘And you’ve heard nothing since?’

‘Nothing at all.’

‘Any names for these Irish guys?’

‘No. He talked about a Mick, but I’m not sure if he meant Mick as in Michael or as in the Micks, you know, the Irish.’

‘And you don’t have any contact numbers for him?’

‘None other than his mobile and that’s dead. Sorry.’

Megan moves on. ‘The last time you spoke, did you and he argue about anything?’

‘No!’ She sounds almost offended.

‘Miss Naylor, if there is any bad blood, recent or previous, between you and your brother, I need to know.’

The sister gives an ironic laugh. ‘Tony and me are like chalk and cheese but we never fall out. We’ve never had a cross word in our lives.’

Megan sees no reason why she should lie. ‘Okay. Does he have any other friends, particularly any lady friends that you know of?’

‘No, no special ones. He’s a bit of a lad, given the chance, but …’ she dries up. ‘Put it this way, Tony isn’t the kind of guy that a woman wants to spend a lot of time with.’

‘Why’s that?’

She blows out a long breath. ‘Where to start? He’s not so hot on his hygiene. A shower once a week is more than enough for our Tony. And he’s not romantic. Tony probably can’t even spell romantic.’

Megan finishes writing. ‘If I send a PC round, could you give him some photographs, recent ones of Tony?’

She thinks for a minute. ‘Latest I’ve got is one of them passport ones, you know, the type you have done at the train station.’

‘How old is it?’

‘About five years. It wasn’t even for a passport, we was just messing about after a few drinks. I made him have his picture taken with me.’

‘Should be fine. You give it to the bobby I send round and I’ll start chasing things up and we’ll see if we can find him. All right?’

‘Yeah. Thanks.’

Megan hangs up and finishes the last of her tea. She has a bad feeling about Tony Naylor. His sister was his only anchor and without a falling out, there’s no reason why he’d set himself adrift. Which means he’s going to be easy to find.

He’s either in jail, or in the morgue.

38

It’s a fifteen-minute drive from Tollard Royal to Shaftesbury. But Gideon Chase makes the journey last twice as long. He checks and rechecks the map and goes at a snail’s pace in Ashmore and East Melbury.

In Cann Common he glides the old Audi off the road near Ash Tree Lane, bangs shut the door and just walks for five minutes. There’s not much to see. Retirement bungalows. A whitewashed cottage. Black smoke billowing from a garden fire. Endless green fields.

Gideon doesn’t really care what’s around him. He’s thinking about what he doesn’t want to see. His father. Dead. Laid out in a funeral parlour only minutes away. Some mortician no doubt hoping his reconstruction disguises the fact that a bullet blew the man’s brain away.

Gideon suddenly throws up. It splatters the pavement in the quiet cul-de-sac. He retches again and feels bad that he didn’t make it to the verge or a drain. If anyone is watching, he knows what they’ll think. He’s a drunk with a monstrous hangover. Fat chance.

Embarrassingly, he doesn’t even have a handkerchief to wipe his mouth. He uses a hand and then rubs it on the grass. Thank you Mother Nature. He turns and sees a sour-faced granny in a doorway glaring at him. There and then he decides on a course of action that will make him late. So be it.

He climbs back into the car with a sense of purpose and drives quickly through Cann Common. He comes to a roundabout and spots a Tesco.

Inside, he feels like he is in Supermarket Sweep, rushing the trolley down the aisles, throwing in milk, bread, beans, pot noodles, orange juice, anything he can think of. Then, most importantly, toothpaste, shampoo, shaving foam, razor and blades. He grabs packs of underwear, socks, deodorant and even a hairbrush.

Straight after checkout, he rushes to the washroom to clean up. It’s such a luxury to use his own toothbrush, not one left by some anonymous guest of his father. He remembers something and goes back into the store and picks up cheddar, a packet of biscuits, some chocolate and a selection of fruit — the items from his father’s shopping list pinned to the fridge. The ones he never lived to buy.

On the way out Gideon casts a greedy eye at a small café. He’s been dreaming of eating a full English breakfast. Maybe later. He asks an old guy walking a Labrador how to get to Bleke Street.

A couple of minutes later he’s there — literally at Death’s door.

Abrahams and Cunningham is to funeral directors what Chepstow, Chepstow and Hawks is to solicitors. Traditional. Old-fashioned. Grim. For a split second, he’s taken in by the illusion that he’s wandered into some old aunt’s quaint hallway. The brushed-velvet striped wallpaper and thick dark-green carpets guide him into a dowdy reception area.

It’s empty. A discreet sign is pinned to the wall: ‘Please ring for attention’, below it is a polished brass plate with a white marble button. He doesn’t ring. Instead, he wanders. Down the corridor he goes. He doesn’t really know why. It’s a compulsion. He wants to see beyond the dull and easy façade. Understand a bit more before he steps into the black business of burials and cremations.

Behind the first door, the room is filled with caskets. A showroom. Where the gentle persuasion no doubt begins. Oak or cedar instead of cheaper pine or chipboard. Next-door is a staff room. A few chairs, a big table, microwave oven, sink and coffee machine. Life goes on, even around death.

The third room shocks him. First the smell. Embalming fluid. Then the metal. Too much of it. Steel sinks, trolleys, implements. A young man in a white coat looks up from a slab of grey flesh. ‘Excuse me, you shouldn’t be in here.’ He hesitates, walks around the lifeless form laid out on its trolley. ‘Are you a relative? Can I help you?’ The man comes towards him, trying to block Gideon’s view as he advances. ‘If you go back to the reception area, I’ll call through and have someone help you, Okay?’

Gideon nods. He notices the man has put his hands behind his back, hiding the red mess on his white rubber gloves.

‘Sorry,’ Gideon says as he exits and heads back to the bell. This time he pushes it. Within a minute, a stout man in his mid-forties with curly hair and brown rectangular glasses appears, straightening his dark suit jacket as he approaches. ‘Craig Abrahams. Mr Chase?’

He extends a hand. ‘Gideon Chase.’

‘I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr Chase. Would you like to see your father straight away or would you like to sit down first and talk about the arrangements?’

‘I’d just like to see him please.’

‘As you wish. Please follow me.’

He trails the man down a river of old blue Axminster and through a door at the far end into another corridor, less well lit. Abrahams stops outside a room marked ‘Chapel of Rest’. He coughs, covering his mouth respectfully. ‘Before we go in, there are two things I’d like to mention. We took the liberty of dressing your father in clothes that the police gave to us. If they are not appropriate, we will of course be happy to change them for any that you prefer.’

‘Thank you.’

He gives Gideon a serious look. ‘Secondly, our cosmetic artist has done considerable work, but I’m afraid you may still be a little shocked when you see him.’

‘I understand.’

‘Many clients expect their loved ones to be exactly as they remembered them. I’m afraid that simply isn’t possible. I just want to prepare you for this eventuality.’

Abrahams smiles sympathetically and opens the door. The smell of fresh flowers hits Gideon. The curtains are drawn and large candles flicker everywhere the eye falls. Nathaniel Chase is laid out in a mahogany coffin with a crêpe interior, the top of the casket hinged open so his head is visible. Gideon approaches the body and he can tell the artist has done a good job. At first glance there is nothing to suggest that his father put a gun to his temple and pulled the trigger.

Slowly he notices things. The skin is too orange. The hair combed in odd directions. His father’s head is misshapen near the left ear — the point the bullet would have exited.

Abrahams touches his arm gently. ‘Would you like me to leave you alone for a while?’

Gideon doesn’t respond. He feels like his emotions are being fast-blended. Regret. Love. Anger. Churned up into a curdled and sickening shake. Fleetingly, he remembers his mother’s funeral. The tears. The black clothes. The men with the long, strange car. Standing at the graveside gripping his father’s hand so tightly because he felt like he was falling off the edge of the earth. It all comes back to him.

‘I’ve seen enough, thanks.’ He smiles at his father, kisses the tip of the fingers and places them on the misshapen head. The brief contact isn’t enough. He can’t just leave it at that. He leans over the casket and puts his lips to his father’s head. Something he can’t ever remember doing before now. Walls in his subconscious collapse. Tears flood his eyes. Gideon wraps his arms around the man who made him, and he sobs.

Craig Abrahams slips silently out of the room. Not out of discretion. He has a phone call to make. A very important one.

39

Nine days to go.

The Henge Master is reminded of the fact wherever he looks. It’s staring at him right now from the calendar on his grand antique desk at work. On the front page of The Times folded neatly for him by one of his assistants. It is everywhere.

In just over a week he must complete the second part of the renewal ritual. He has to prepare the Followers for the nexus. And they are nowhere near ready. If only Chase hadn’t ruined everything. Had he held his nerve and done what had been expected of him, all would have been well. But it isn’t.

The Master’s eyes stray to a gold frame and the gentle face of his wife. Today is their wedding anniversary. Their thirtieth. But it could have been so different, had she not defied the medics and their so-called expert opinions. Their high-tech ‘no-mistake’ diagnosis: PH. Two letters that twenty years ago meant nothing to either of them. They’d both stared at the consultant in disbelief as he said it. Only the twitch in his eye gave away the fact that it meant anything serious.

It was terminally serious.

PH.

Pulmonary Hypertension.

They’d put down the shortness of breath and dizziness to her being tired. Doing too much. Burning the candle at both ends. No proper job — life balance. A career in law versus raising a young family. It was bound to take its toll.

PH.

‘Uncurable.’

He’d almost corrected the consultant, Mr Sanjay. He wasn’t disputing what the earnest medic meant, just his poor English. He wanted to point out that it was ‘incurable’ not ‘uncurable’. A man of Sanjay’s standing, regardless of his origins, should have known that there was no such word. But suddenly there was. And his sweet, gorgeous wife kept repeating it to herself.

‘Uncurable.’

PH.

Then he found the miracle. The Sacreds. Within weeks of embracing the Craft, ‘uncurable’ didn’t exist any more. PH was gone. It vanished as quickly and mysteriously as it had materialised. The hospital ran three months of exhaustive diagnostics before they finally admitted it and almost grudgingly gave her a clean bill of health.

It had baffled them. They had come to hold their cold stethoscopes to her precious breasts, to inspect her blood and peer at charts and notes. They all agreed — there had been no misdiagnosis — and yet the PH had gone. She was cured.

The mobile phone lying on the leather blotter on his desk rings. He looks at it for a moment before answering. ‘Yes.’

‘It’s Draco. The son is at the funeral parlour.’

‘Anything unusual happen?’

‘No. I’m told he became emotional when he saw his father.’

The Henge Master drums his fingers on the desk. ‘Maybe time has healed whatever rift there was between them.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Go easy on him. Be open to all possibilities.’

‘I always am.’

‘And of the other matter?’

‘Yes.’

‘The Sacreds will decide.’

Draco is worried. ‘Are you sure there is time?’

‘The Sacreds are sure. Inform the Lookers.’

40

It’s early afternoon when Gideon gets back to the house. He is emotionally drained but he knows it would be unnatural to feel any different. Not after seeing your dead father laid out in a coffin, cosmetics barely disguising his bullet-blasted head. But he won’t wallow, it’s not his nature. Life knocks you down, you get up and get on with things.

He realises he is repeating advice his father gave to him. For so long he has tried to deny the man. It comes as a shock. The old man had a much bigger impact than he appreciated. Gideon makes himself a cup of black coffee and sits in the lounge looking absent-mindedly out on to the tumbling lawns. He never had his father down as a gardener. Most probably their shape and maintenance has been done by hired help.

He is close to falling asleep when the front doorbell shocks him with its alien jangle. He goes to the door, opens it, the chain still on. A stocky bald man of around forty stands there in jeans and a blue T-shirt.

‘Afternoon, I’m Dave Smithsen.’ He nods to a big white box van parked by the Audi, his name proudly stencilled in black down the side. ‘I own a building company. I heard from someone in town that you’d had a fire. Thought you might need some help.’

Gideon flips the chain. ‘I do, but in all honesty, I’m not sure now is the right time. My father very recently died.’

Smithsen sticks a hand through the gap. ‘I know, my condolences. I was due to do some work for him.’ They shake and the builder pulls a wad of notes from his pocket. ‘Mr Chase paid me to repair some old iron guttering around the back and fix a broken tile. You best have it back. I’m very sorry.’

Gideon takes the money. He looks at it, about two hundred pounds, and returns it. ‘You keep it. Maybe you can fix the roof when you repair the fire damage?’

‘Thanks.’ The man pockets the cash and smiles sympathetically. ‘Let me get you a card from the van. You can give me a ring when you feel like it. My old man died just over a year ago, I know what it’s like. Parents are funny — they drive you mad while they’re around, then when they’re gone, you feel like your world exploded.’

Gideon starts to think that putting off the work isn’t a good idea. Nothing to be gained from delaying. ‘I’m sorry, I’m just being daft. If you’d like to take a look at the damage and give me an estimate, I’d be grateful to get the job done.’

Smithsen weighs him up. ‘You sure? It’s no trouble to come back.’

‘No. Go ahead.’ He steps outside. ‘I’ll let you in from the back. Do you want a drink? I’ve just put the kettle on.’

‘That’d be great. Tea, two sugars, please.’

Gideon pads through the house. It feels strangely reassuring to have the mundane distraction of a workman around the place. Normality. An acceptance that life goes on. He unlocks the back door.

It doesn’t take the builder long to size up the job. The walls are made from heavy stone, little real damage done. They’ll need pressure washing inside and out and probably repointing in places. Gideon puts down a mug of tea for him. Smithsen thanks him and carries on making pencil notes on a sheet of folded paper.

The inside of the study is a big mess. The parquet flooring is ruined and will need to be relaid. The window will have to be replaced. The ceiling plaster has all cracked off and the beams and joists are exposed and blackened by smoke. He wanders through to the kitchen where Gideon is stood sorting through the morning’s post. ‘Sorry to interrupt. Do you mind if I take a look upstairs, over the study? I think the floor may have been made unsafe because of the fire.’

‘Sure, go ahead.’

‘Thanks.’

Gideon wonders how many more letters are going to arrive in his father’s name and how long he’ll feel a stab of loss every time they do. Another thought hits him. One more disturbing. The door to the room is open. He drops the post and runs up the stairs.

The man is nowhere to be seen.

He rushes into the bedroom. Smithsen is not there.

Gideon dashes into the corridor and into the little room. The builder is on his knees in the corner. He looks up with half a smile on his face. ‘There’s a bit of a creak in the middle but it’s probably all right. Is it okay to take this carpet up and do some proper stress checks?’

‘No. No, it’s not okay.’ He can’t help but look and sound flustered. ‘Look, this is a mistake. I’m sorry. It’s too soon. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’

Smithsen stands up. ‘I understand. No problem. But I wouldn’t spend time in here until you’ve had the place checked out. The fire has probably damaged the beams and you might have a bad accident if the floor is unsafe.’

‘Thanks. But right now I need you to go.’

The man gives him another sympathetic look. ‘Sure. I’ll put that card through your letterbox. Ring me when you’re really sure that you’re ready to have things done.’

Gideon follows him down and says goodbye at the back door. His heart is hammering. Maybe he’s paranoid. Spooked by nothing. The guy seemed honest enough, even nice. He was just trying to help out.

But something is nagging him. He watches the builder’s van drive off and then he returns to the room.

His father’s books have been moved.

41

Caitlyn Lock has a simple rule about men — one date, one goodbye. Simple as that.

Sitting in her father’s apartment, she is reminding herself of all the reasons to stick to it. But there is something about Jake Timberland that makes her want to throw caution to the wind.

It’s not just that he is good-looking. They always are. Or that he is wealthy. They all have to be. It’s that he’s … well … so … British. Which after all is why she is in the damned country in the first place. To get a slice of Britain. See something older than her grandmother’s house. A culture that shaped the world, a people that dominated half the globe. Queen and Empire and all that weird stuff.

And deep down, yes, she had even thought about meeting a man like him. The kind who is exotically unusual and deep. Awkward even. She knows that there’s more to Jake than meets the eye. Maybe even romance. Her parents’ split had pretty much drop-kicked that thought out of her, but now it’s back, prompted by the text he’s just sent. A picture message of a beautiful sunrise. Below it the words, ‘Sit with me through this. Drive with me through the night to a place full of ancient magic. Be with me through a cherry-coloured sunrise and laugh with me until sunset.’

The proposition is a delicious one. No nightclubs and paparazzi wolves. No prying eyes of her father’s security team. Pure escapism. The message appeals to her spirit, one starved of the taste of freedom. She types in a simple reply: ‘Yes!’

She doesn’t know how she’ll get past the men in suits who are always watching, with their radios and surveillance logs, but she will. Tonight she’ll escape the golden cage and fly.

42

The builder’s surprise visit and nosing around has made Gideon feel vulnerable. The big old house is isolated. He’s been attacked once already and doesn’t want it to happen again. He certainly doesn’t want to lose the books and the secrets they contain about his father. He needs to take precautions. Lock the gates. Put the alarm on.

It takes several calls and more than an hour to convince the security company that he isn’t a burglar. Finally they tell him how to reset the system and he’s pleasantly shocked at how noisy it is. Not that it matters. You could let off a small nuclear explosion and it would probably go unnoticed around here.

Which is why he searches the place for things to defend himself with. He finds an axe in the shed and takes a large knife from a wooden block in the kitchen. The best he can muster. Makes him feel slightly deranged, carrying them around while making beans on toast for a late lunch but deranged is better than scared.

Afterwards, he finds a handheld controller to lock the garden gates. He activates them, then sets the alarm to cover the downstairs and retires to his father’s hidden room with a cup of tea, bottle of water and his knife and axe. He knows life can’t go on like this. But right now he needs to feel secure not scared rigid. He remembers the builder’s comments about the floor being unsafe. What if he’s right? What if the fire has burned the support timbers and any second now they give way. He’ll fall through, break his back probably. Gideon feels like he’s going mad. Fear is spreading through him like a virus. He’s got to kill it off.

Methodically and unemotionally, he clears his head by deciphering the journals. By late evening finds he’s able to translate automatically, rather than writing out the symbols first. He reads how Nathaniel believed followers of the Sacreds were saved from the outbreak of Asiatic Flu, Russian Flu, in 1889, when a million people were killed. Similarly, how they avoided the 1918 Spanish Flu outbreak — a virus that went on to claim the lives of almost fifty million people. It was the same in 1957, when Asian Flu swept the world and wiped out almost two million people. And in 1968, when Hong Kong Flu killed a million and again in 2009, during the deadly outbreak of Swine Flu, the H1N1 virus. None of the Followers perished.

Gideon is sceptical but fascinated by the claims. He guesses it’s possible. A psychosomatic reaction to the stones brought on by powerful beliefs. Lourdes springs to mind. From what he can recall, more than two hundred million people have made pilgrimages there. His atheist’s mind equates the two. The healing powers of the stones versus those of the waters of a grotto in the foothills of the Pyrenees. Both as equally incredible as each other.

He looks at his watch. It’s almost one a.m. He’s hungry and exhausted. Too tired and anxious to go downstairs or make anything to eat. He vows to look over just one more page and then turn in for the night.

He wishes he hadn’t. The passage he’s focused on makes his blood run cold:

He reads it again. His brain pounds as he tries to take it in. Only the key words — cancer, hereditary, CLL — stay sharp in his mind.

CLL.

What is it? Does he have it?

Will it kill him?

43

The Henge Master walks in the comforting dark circle of the Sacreds, his eyes turned to the pin-prick stars. The night sky is an avalanche of black soot, a limitless mystery, a dark hurricane hurtling towards the sleeping heads of the ignorant. It is his duty to look for them. To understand for them. To save them from their own folly.

In the unseen currents and dark streams above, he senses the shift, the wheeling constellations, the lethargy of the Lyrids, the impatience of the coming and deadly Delta Aquarids. He feels the pull of the tides, the shift of winds across oceans, the growing cracks in the core of the earth.

As always the innocent will come running to the summer solstice, their heads beaded, their hands clasped. Their vaunted hopes of wild lovemaking and drug-induced euphoria. They will choke on their own naivety. Every last one of them. Even those who think they are wise have no idea, no understanding that the important thing is not the solstice and the sun. It is the full moon that follows.

Balance. Always balance. So many only ever see the obvious. Just as the greatest magicians fool us by distraction, so do the gods. Only the chosen can see beyond the cosmic illusions. Let the blind prostrate themselves and pose in the dazzling show of light at the equinox. Redemption lies in the twilight. The moon is rising to its most powerful apex.

The Master knows the importance of the unseen. Farmers since time began have learned this primary lesson. The crop we see depends on what we cannot see. The darkness in the earth must be respected, it must be loved as much as the brightness in the sky. The ancients knew — and their children know — the earth’s unseen powers of growth need to be nourished. They need blood meal, the richness of bone, the coolness of the grave. Scientists say blood on soil provides vital nitrogen, but it obliges with much more than just chemicals. Blood contains something else. Soul. And the more the soil has, the more it wants.

In forty-eight hours the summer solstice will bring tens of thousands to Stonehenge. The ignorant will jibber-jabber like baboons. They will clamber like cavemen on the stones. They will claim to be touched spiritually by an energy they have yearned to feel.

If only they knew the truth. The brutal truth. Because by then the circle will be empty. The Sacreds will be in the Sanctuary.

The Master smiles as he walks away. Tomorrow he will return and begin his pilgrimage. He will supplicate himself before each and every god and absorb their divine spirits. He will be their vessel, their portal through the black earth to the ancient temple below.

44

Eric Denver has been head of security for the Lock family for almost twenty years. Husband, wife and now daughter. Guardian angel to them all. Thom Lock is a self-made multimillionaire. When he was made Vice President of the United States, he had no choice but to accept Secret Service protection for himself. But he put his foot down when it came to Caitlyn. He was determined that his only child would have something more personal and private. Hence Eric. Given her wild behaviour, it’s a good job he signed him up. Tongues would certainly wag in Washington if the smileless ones in the corridors of power knew half the things she gets up to under cover of completing her studies in the UK.

Eric gives the VP daily reports, but he leaves stuff out. The kid’s got to have room to breathe. Even he can see that all the attention and private scrutiny suffocate her sometimes. So occasionally, like now, he turns a blind eye when things get a bit loose.

Just before midnight, six of Caitlyn’s girlfriends roll in and all but fall down the corridor outside her apartment. They’re clutching handbags and bottles of champagne. On their slim faked-tan arms are six muscled youths straight out of an army poster. Big, brawny heads, biceps like rugby balls, eyes glazed from booze and dope.

Eric and Leon, his number-two, step forward and block the march of the dirty drunken dozen. ‘Homework club’s cancelled, kids,’ he says, recognising a couple of the girls’ faces. ‘You need to be getting off now.’

The tallest of the youths — blond-haired with the kind of physique few would want to test — swaggers forward. ‘Hey, we don’t want no trouble, brother. We just come to party with Caitlyn.’

Eric raises an eyebrow. ‘Brother’ is not a term he takes easily from a white kid. ‘No partying tonight, my friend. Miss Lock already has an important date — with a cup of cocoa and a TV show.’

Blondie’s about to push his luck when Caitlyn opens the front door. Four of the girls scream with drunken excitement and rush her. The guys start to follow but the two bodyguards block the door. Music explodes from a Bose system rigged into the walls. Black Eyed Peas’ ‘Rock that Body’.

The guys are having a stare-out when two of the women briefly reappear from the apartment. One of them jumps into Eric’s arms and tries hard to kiss him. He pulls her away and puts her down. She smoothes out her sparkling blue cocktail dress. ‘Please let us all in Eric, pleeeze. You can’t keep Caitlyn cooped up like this. She needs some fun.’

The girl smells of booze and perfume, mouth-fresheners and spray-on deodorant. ‘C’mon Janie, you and these friends of yours need to go home, you know the score. Caitlyn had her fun the other night.’

The situation changes in a second. One of the youths spins and shouts, ‘Fuck him, Janie, we’re outta here.’ He and his friends tow a couple of the girls back to the lifts. ‘C’mon, let’s go to China’s.’ The call brings the others from the apartment. One of them giggles then stumbles and breaks a heel. Leon helps her up and she hobbles off holding the shoe in a hand.

As the apartment door bangs shut, Caitlyn’s voice screams through the wood: ‘Thanks a-friggin lot.’

Eric smiles and listens to the lift ding, then goes back to the apartment door and knocks lightly. ‘Caitlyn, we’re just looking out for you.’

‘Screw you. I’m going to bed.’ Another door slams deep inside the apartment. He looks at Leon. ‘Could be worse.’

‘How so?’

Eric grins again. ‘We could have let them in. Then we really would have had trouble.’

45

They hail taxis in the road outside Caitlyn’s apartment and head north of the river into the frothy wash of endless partyland. Eric and Leon make coffee in their adjoining apartment and watch a TV among a bank of monitors linked to security cameras on the landing, lifts, stairways and outside areas. They relax now that Caitlyn’s sulking in her room and they’re not traipsing around Soho or the West End watching her back. Neither really fancied another late night. Tomorrow they’ll think differently. Tomorrow they will know that amid all the shouting, kissing, comings and goings, they both missed something. Something significant.

Caitlyn.

The angry voice from inside the apartment wasn’t her voice. It was Abbie Richter’s. The young American is now snuggled up in Caitlyn’s king-size bed, ready for a good night’s sleep and no doubt a tongue-lashing from Eric in the morning when he finds out they switched.

Caitlyn is in the front seat of the VW Campervan Jake Timberland has hired for this very special occasion. He looks across from the well-worn steering wheel. ‘Vintage Type 2,’ he brags, adding ironically, ‘Whopping 1.4-litre engine that will whisk you to your secret destination at a dizzying sixty miles an hour. Check out the rock ’n’ roll rear seat.’

Like a small child, she scurries from the front to explore the back of the van. She finds cupboards stacked with snacks, a DVD player, flatscreen TV, fitted oven and fridge full of champagne, strawberries and three different types of ice cream. ‘Yay!’ she shouts as she inspects the flavours and eyes up a back seat that converts into a double bed.

Caitlyn returns to the front and pecks him on the cheek before sitting back down. ‘I love it. Love it, love it.’

‘Glad I could please.’

‘I’m so sparked up! So, where are we going?’

‘Somewhere you’ve never been. Where few have trod but many have dreamed.’

She play-punches him on the arm. ‘Cut it out. Tell me.’

He laughs. ‘No. It’s a surprise.’

They cross the river and head west out to Hammersmith, past Brentford, north of Heathrow then south down a river of endless black tarmac. They stretch their legs at a service station near Fleet, then climb back in and Caitlyn soon falls asleep.

Jake drives for another hour, fighting off tiredness by listening to the radio and taking occasional glances at the sleeping beauty in the passenger seat. Sometimes he lifts her hand. Just to hold it. His mind running away with him. Imagining their relationship is already more than it actually is. Finally he sees the sign he’s been looking for and pulls off the road. He parks up, kills the engine and retreats into the back to pull out the bed.

The sudden stillness causes Caitlyn to stir. He leans close and strokes her hair as he whispers, ‘We’re here.’

She murmurs. Her eyes flicker open but she’s having trouble fighting the pull of sleep.

‘Come and lie down in the back. You can sleep better for a while.’

She gets it together enough to stumble through to the bed he’s laid out. She curls up quickly and he lies next to her and pulls the quilt over them. Her eyes closed, she asks, ‘Where are we?’

‘Wait until sunrise,’ he says, kissing her lightly.

46

Lee Johns has lost track of time. He doesn’t know how long he’s been slipping in and out of consciousness. It could be hours or days. He’s only aware of those long moments when pain is clamping his limbs and screams are climbing his throat.

Left naked face-down on the floor of the Great Room, he’s been close to death and has lost several pints of blood. The icy Slaughter Stone under him has chilled his body to hypothermic levels.

He wakes. Feels a deep, rhythmical bludgeoning in his head. But is glad to be alive. He can move a hand. The bindings have been cut. Two robed and hooded Helpers see him stirring and step forward. They carefully lift him from the floor and wrap blankets around him.

It’s over.

Johns is stiff and barely able to walk. His senses are peculiarly heightened. He has no feeling in his feet but can hear loud echoes from his own footsteps like he’s walking on the surface of a giant drum. The Helpers support him as he sways unsteadily down the cold, shadowy passageways. ‘We are taking you to the cleansing area,’ says a distant voice. ‘You’ll be washed and dressed, then instructed.’

The words seem to leave an imprint in the air, like a sound wave on a recording screen. Johns strains over his shoulder and sees the syllables trailing behind him like the fluttering tail of a multi-coloured kite.

They must have drugged him. He’s hallucinating, that’s all.

They take him to a deep stone trench being filled by a roaring waterfall. It’s red. Blood red. And it’s steaming on the floor like a pan of spilled tomato soup. Johns stands naked, terrified, frozen to the spot.

‘It’s all right, trust us.’ A Helper holds his own hand under the cascading blood and as it touches his skin it becomes transparent. Crystal clear. As pure as a mountain stream.

Johns steps in and closes his eyes. The steam from the shower smells like rusty iron. It feels like a thousand needles are being jabbed into his scalp. His heart bucks hard as the hot spray spikes into his head like thorns.

Slowly his cold-numbed nerves come tingling to life beneath the warm downpour. Finally, he opens his eyes. He looks at his hands and body. The water is running clean. No blood. Everything’s normal.

The Helpers stand at the edge of the trench, holding towels for him. He steps out, leaving wet footprints as he pads across the slate floor, mist drifting from the cleansing area. In front of him are his own clothes and a rough sack robe. It is his. He is a member of the Craft. He’s been accepted.

There’s a full-length mirror in the corner. He twists his body to see the extent of the wounds caused by the Master. Strange. He twists his right forearm and then his left arm to inspect the initiation cuts. He checks the mirror again.

‘What’s going on?’

Those around him say nothing.

‘I was bleeding. But I can’t see any scars.’ He angles his body again in front of the mirror. ‘There’s nothing. Not a mark.’

A cloaked shape fills the doorway.

Johns looks across and recognises the rugged face beneath the hood. Sean Grabb, Serpens, his Craft brother.

Proud mentor smiles at protégé. ‘Get dressed, Lacerta. There are important duties to be done.’

47

Just after four a.m. the sky begins to lighten. Jake gently wakes Caitlyn.

She is jelly-legged as he helps her from the Campervan and starts to shiver in the cool morning air. He rushes back for a couple of blankets and the bag of goodies he’s packed up from the fridge.

‘Where are we?’ she mutters as he snuggles her beneath his arm and the warm wrap. ‘I still can’t see anything.’

‘You will in a minute. It’s a piece of old England. Tomorrow, it will be flooded with thousands of hippies like you, but this morning, right now, it’s ours. Just yours and mine. I booked it.’

‘Booked it?’

‘Everything is buyable these days. Others had paid to tour the site but I paid them off. Bought them out. Just for you.’

She’s too touched and tired to say anything.

They shuffle across the damp grass in the receding darkness and gradually she starts to see it. Something huge. Rising out of the rosy warmth of the breaking dawn. Her pupils pulse wide as she stares at the monumental shape. ‘Jesus, what is it? It’s like some weird space ship.’

And it is. It’s just like a massive stone UFO crashed into the ground. Jake throws open his arms in a grand gesture. ‘Welcome to Stonehenge.’

‘It’s … awesome.’ She skips and takes in the heady scene, then wanders back into his arms and kisses him deeply. They hold each other beneath the fading constellations and block out everything that exists except themselves.

‘Come on.’ He takes her by the hand. ‘Let’s go to the centre.’

They run together and she can’t remember when she last felt like this. So free. So energised.

Jake stands back to take photographs. Snaps on an old pocket Nikon and knows he’s going to keep the images for ever. One day when they’re both old, he’ll dig them out and they’ll remember today. History in the making.

Caitlyn pauses, breathless, wraps her arms around one of the sarsens. She looks like a child clinging to the leg of a giant. She laughs and poses for him.

Click.

She scoops a hand behind her hair and pouts.

Click.

She kisses the stone and strokes it.

Click. Click. Click.

‘One more!’ he shouts and she obliges, leaning against the stone and blowing a kiss right down the lens.

Click.

He stops shooting and gives in to another urge to kiss her.

They lock together. Her back against the giant stone, him pressed hard against her soft warm body. Raw sexual energy rushes through them both.

She closes her eyes and goes with it. Rises like a bird on the hot thermals of his passion. She yields to the invasion of his hands beneath her clothes, the conquering of her flesh. The mystery and magic of his romantic surprise have overwhelmed her.

He spasms against her. It’s not as passionate as she hoped. In fact it’s off-putting and embarrassing. Less of an orgasmic peak, more a sudden and awkward crash of his forehead against hers. Caitlyn flinches and grabs her bruised head. Jake pulls away from her.

‘Ow!’ she exclaims, mad that the moment has been ruined.

A hand slaps across her mouth. A stranger’s hand.

She manages a brief panicking glance at her unconscious lover before a hood is pulled over her head and duct tape wrapped around her mouth.

Within sixty seconds the fields are empty and silent, save the first birdsong of a new day. The sun finishes its slow upward arc into the bruised sky above the henge.

48

Serpens drives the Campervan. On the floor in the back is the blindfolded and bound form of Jake Timberland. Lacerta follows in his friend’s old Mitsubishi Warrior. Caitlyn Lock is tied up and tightly gagged in the rear.

The instructions to the Lookers had been clear. Keep surveillance on the site and wait until the Sacreds choose. Be patient. Like the last victim, it would be their will. And it was. The couple arrived in twilight. They invaded the circle. They touched the stone that the Master said would be touched. They had been drawn to it. Just as the Master said.

The Followers call that particular trilithon the Seeking Stone and there’s no doubt in Serpens’ mind these two lovers sought it. They chose their destiny. Draco will be pleased. All of the Inner Circle will be. He and Lacerta have done a good job.

Ordinarily, Serpens doesn’t take them at the circle itself. Once chosen, they are followed. Sometimes for weeks. Sometimes months. Greater care is usually shown before any abduction is executed. But time is against them. The stars are shifting. There is only a week to go to the change of the moon phase. The renewal must be completed. There is barely time to cleanse the sacrifices, to make them pure.

The lad in the back has suddenly started banging his feet on the wooden floor like a toddler having a tantrum. He will learn to be quiet. He’ll soon know to be silent. Serpens turns up the radio. Before long he takes the van off road, through land that the Craft own, through woods and vales once home to Mesolithic, Neolithic and Bronze Age tribes.

Serpens pulls over in a quiet place not far from the isolated track that leads to the hidden entrance of the Sanctuary.

Lacerta tucks the Warrior behind the Campervan and waits for his mentor to make the next move. All he knows is that they are going to leave the sacrifices there and drive the van to a barn, where it will be kept until dark. Later it’ll no doubt be taken to a scrapyard and crushed.

Serpens kills the engine and climbs into the back. At least the guy’s stopped kicking. Learned his lesson. Best not to fight it. Best not to resist what’s going to happen next.

49

Lacerta wanders towards the parked Camper. He wonders why Serpens is still in there. Nothing is happening. Through the window he sees him crouched in the back. He opens the door and sticks his head in, ‘Everything okay?’

‘No, it’s not.’ Serpens turns. ‘Everything’s very much not okay.’

Lacerta climbs in and shuts the door. ‘Why, what’s wrong?’

Serpens moves back and reveals the body on the floor. ‘He’s dead.’

‘Dead?’

It’s one of those words that you just have to repeat. ‘Dead.’

He emphasises the point by picking up Jake Timberland’s arm and letting it fall.

‘Fuck.’

‘Fuck indeed.’

Lacerta is in shock. He steps closer and peers at the crumpled form on the floor. ‘What’s wrong with him?’

‘You mean, apart from the fact his heart’s stopped and he has no pulse?’

‘I mean, what killed him?’

Serpens shakes his head. ‘I don’t know. Maybe I hit him too hard. Maybe you tied him up too tight and he suffocated.’

For almost a minute they both stare guiltily at the corpse and wonder which of them was responsible.

Both are aware of the fate that awaited the couple. Sacrifice.

That would have been much worse for the guy. But it would have been done under the eyes of the Gods. Done with their blessing, in their honour and with their protection. Under controlled circumstances. Carefully planned procedures to protect everyone concerned. Nothing like this. This is a screw-up.

Lacerta breaks the silence. ‘What are we going to do?’

The older man sits back and puts his head in his hands. ‘I’m trying to think, trying to work something out.’

‘We could just dump them both.’ He nods towards the pick-up. ‘No one knows about the girl or him. We could drive them somewhere away from here and just leave them.’

Serpens thinks about it. ‘Did she see your face?’

‘No. I don’t reckon so.’ He reconsiders. ‘Maybe. But even if she did, it was only for half a second.’

Serpens grimaces. ‘That’s all it takes. You see a lot in half a second.’ He has another thought. ‘She’ll know where she was, what time. It’s too risky.’

‘Then we kill her.’ Lacerta shrugs. ‘She was going to die anyway. We can make it look like the boyfriend got rough. He was almost humping her back there at the stones. I bet he’s given her one earlier in the night. His DNA will be all over her. The police are bound to think he did it.’

His mentor shakes his head. ‘She’s been chosen. She touched the Sacreds and it’s our duty to supply her to them.’

Lacerta is panicking: ‘It’s our duty to stay out of fucking prison.’

Serpens stays calm, gets his head together. ‘We need to drive this Camper somewhere, get it out of sight. Then I’ll call my contact in the Inner Circle. It’s up to the Master to decide.’

‘What about the girl?’

He nods. ‘You stay here with him. I’ll take her into the Sanctuary.’

Lacerta is not happy. Even in this remote location, far from any road or house, he doesn’t want to be left alone with a dead body. ‘Hurry up.’

Serpens runs to the Warrior. The girl is red-faced and struggling in the back of the cab. At least she’s alive.

Caitlyn sees the panic on his face. The fear is contagious. It makes her kick and thrash against the bonds.

Serpens considers taking the duct tape from around her mouth and trying to calm her down but decides against it. Best get her inside as quickly as possible. Get her locked up. Call Draco and tell him about the awful mess they’re in.

50

Yesterday’s personal discovery gave Gideon a restless night.

CLL.

It stands for chronic lymphocytic leukaemia and is a dreadful disease that occurs when the DNA of the lymphocyte cell mutates. As years pass, damaged cells multiply and the mutant army kills off normal cells in the lymph nodes and bone marrow. Blood-forming cells are eventually overwhelmed and the body’s immune system surrenders — it no longer has the ability to fight off infection.

It is how his mother died.

He knows all this because he spent all night reading about it online. He also found out that the disease is hereditary. But not always. CLL inheritance is a game of medical roulette. Maybe he has it, maybe he hasn’t. Only time will tell.

Deep in his memory something stirs. Rises from the sands of forgotten nightmares. He wasn’t a healthy child — he was plagued by colds and hay fever, coughs and dizzy spells. One time he fell really sick. A raging fever and heavy sweats. It was so bad his father took him out of school. Had him hospitalised and seen by specialists. There were machines and monitors, needles in his arms, stern faces and long adult conversations just out of earshot. Then they let him go home. His father had red eyes, like he’d been crying.

And he remembers something else. For a second, he has to stop himself. Needs to make sure his mind isn’t playing tricks. The diaries have churned him up, left him exhausted and emotional. He could be suffering from false memory syndrome, implanting things into the past that hadn’t happened.

But he doesn’t think so.

His father made him lie down in the cold metal bath in their old house. He remembers it distinctly because he was embarrassed. He was naked and the bath was empty. Then Nathaniel poured cold grey water all over him. Doused him from head to toe, told him to splash it over his face and in his hair. Urged him not to waste a drop.

He was shaking from cold and fear when he got out. His father wrapped him in a towel and held him tight, told him not to worry, said the water was special and would take the sickness away. And it had. Almost instantly. He went back to school days later and felt perfectly well.

Another piece of his childhood jigsaw falls into place. He’s never been ill since that day. Not even a sniffle. Whenever he has cut himself, it has healed quickly.

Gideon walks to his father’s old bedroom and looks in the mirror on the dressing table. The injuries he sustained in the fight with the intruder downstairs have gone. He puts a hand to his face. The skin is unblemished. There’s no trace of the split lip or cut cheek. It’s like it never happened.

51

Black carrion crows settle on the jagged ridge of an old barn that has seen little care in the last twenty years. Draco points at the avian army as he walks through the long grass with Musca.

He bangs on the dark twisted wood of the barn door and the birds scatter skyward, then swoop and settle into treetops edging the vast field.

From inside there comes the noise of urgency. Metal against metal. Things being moved. Serpens has already seen them through cracks in the barn boards and opens up. He looks embarrassed. ‘Sorry about all this.’

Draco says nothing. He is sorry too. Sorry about the screw-up. Sorry he has to come and sort out the mess. The two men slide past Serpens. He locks the door again. Rolls a broken scarifier back behind it, positions the long metal arm that connects to a tractor so it jams against one of the door beams. ‘Thanks for coming.’

Draco looks quickly around. ‘Are we are alone?’

Serpens nods. ‘I have sent Lacerta home.’

‘Good,’ says Musca. ‘At least you’ve done one thing properly.’

Draco gets straight to the point. ‘Where is the body?’

Sean points across the barn at the Campervan. ‘He’s in there.’

‘And the woman?’

‘Safe at the Sanctuary. In one of the meditation rooms.’ It is a euphemism. They are merely spaces chiselled in the thick stone walls, no bigger than a broom cupboard. The supplicant can’t kneel, let alone sit or lay down. Air dribbles through letterbox-sized slits by the feet and head. ‘Did she say anything?’

‘Nothing you could make any sense of. Just screamed.’

Musca smiles. ‘She’ll stop after an hour or two.’

Serpens slides open the Camper door and they climb in. Draco leans over the corpse. ‘Have you searched him?’

Serpens shakes his head. Musca opens up the glovebox and pulls out hire documents, a driving licence and a bag of something. He holds it up to the windscreen. ‘Ecstasy. A nice little stash.’ He drops it on the driver’s seat. ‘There’s a name here.’ He flicks through the agreement. ‘Edward Jacob Timberland, address New Cavendish Street, Marylebone.’ He picks up the driving licence and looks at the photograph. ‘Yep, that’s our guy. Thirty-one years old.’ He flips it over. ‘And six points to his name.’

‘He won’t be worrying about those any more,’ says Draco. He takes a deep breath. ‘So he and his girlfriend hire the VW for a hippy trip to Stonehenge. That means they won’t be missed for a day or two.’ He gives them a smile. ‘Not as bad as you thought. The Sacreds picked the perfect sacrifices, free souls who can take time off and play at being children of the sixties.’

Serpens looks relieved. ‘So what do you want me to do with him?’

‘Nothing. We’ll keep the van here until after the ceremony and then we’ll dispose of the bodies together. Go get yourself a decent breakfast. And relax. You can leave the girl to us now.’

52

DCI Jude Tompkins stomps into the CID office with a face like thunder. ‘Baker, Dockery, conference room, five minutes. Don’t be late.’

She’s gone as quickly as she appeared. Jimmy looks across desks to Megan. ‘What’s all that about? I have to see an informant in ten minutes.’

‘I think this is more important, Jim. You’d better ring your man and stand him down.’

‘Shit.’ He rips the desk phone from its cradle and punches in a number.

Megan calmly finishes reviewing the document she was working on, saves it and locks her computer. She grabs a plastic cup of water from a dispenser in the pantry and wanders down the corridor to the meeting room.

It’s crowded. Full of bigwigs. She tries to put ranks and names to faces. There are five or six sergeants, at least three inspectors, two DCIs, the Detective Chief Super, John Rowlands, and there at the top of the table is Jimmy’s old man, the Deputy Chief Constable, Greg Dockery. He’s flanked by two smartly dressed civilians she doesn’t recognise.

‘What’s the score?’ asks Charlie Lanning, a uniform inspector, taking a seat next to her. ‘Something to do with the solstice? Bloody hedgerows are already full of dopeheads. It’s going to be worse than ever.’

‘Your guess is as good as mine.’ Megan gestures to the end of the conference table. ‘The suits look too serious for solstice ops. Too official. Could be a Home Office review. Or maybe more cutbacks.’

‘Nothing left to cut in my unit. We’re not down to the bone, we’re into it and almost out the other side.’

They don’t have to wait long.

The Deputy Chief raises his voice. ‘Your attention please.’ He waits a beat for the noise to die down. ‘You have been gathered for a matter of urgency. To my left is Drew Blake of the American Embassy and to my right Sebastian Ingram of the Home Office.’ He picks up a large photograph that has been face-down on the table. ‘This is Caitlyn Lock. She is twenty-two years old. She is an American citizen at university in London and she is missing.’ He turns the photograph left and right for all the room to see. ‘Some of you may recognise this young lady. Miss Lock is something of a celebrity. She won the US reality television show Survivor and is the daughter of Hollywood film star Kylie Lock and of course the Vice President of the United States, Thom Lock.’ Most in the room are taking notes and Dockery pauses briefly before continuing: ‘At this stage we have no reason to believe any harm has come to Caitlyn. There has been no ransom demand. She is known to be something of a free spirit, so this may simply be an innocent disappearance with a new boyfriend. However, she has not been seen since midnight last night so it is extremely important that we find her.’ He scans the faces around the table, lets the point sink in, then gestures to his Detective Chief Superintendent.

John Rowlands stands. The head of CID is lean, a little over fifty and serious-looking. He’s the only officer in the county who’s also worked in the Met on homicide, abduction and terrorism cases. ‘Just before midnight Caitlyn Lock tricked her private security team into believing she was in bed when in fact she had slipped out of her father’s apartment in central London, just south of the river, to be with a man known to her friends only as Jake. She later telephoned one of these friends from a service station in Fleet, heading west, and said she didn’t know where she was going — she was being treated to some kind of surprise. The friend said she sounded happy and excited and mentioned an old Campervan but gave no description, no make or colour.’ He lets them process what he has given them. ‘Given the solstice, the van and the timing, this young woman could well be on our patch. If she is, I want her found and returned to London before the maids have changed the sheets on her bed.’ He turns to his left. ‘I will head the inquiry, DCI Tompkins will be my number-two. She will give you the operational details and your duties straight after this meeting. Surrounding forces are setting up their own investigations and the national press is being informed of Caitlyn’s disappearance.’

He hears groans around the room.

‘Be smart, people. The public and the press have the power to find this girl much quicker than we can. They are our eyes and ears. Use them, don’t abuse them. And don’t be stupid. All press enquiries have to be channelled through the communications office. Now go and get something to eat. It will be your last opportunity for quite a while.’

53

Draco catches it on the radio. Not all of it but enough. Something about the daughter of a Hollywood actress and an American politician going missing with her boyfriend. In a Campervan. He pulls out his burner and calls Musca. ‘Have you listened to the news in the last hour?’

‘No. Not been near a TV or radio.’

Draco starts to think. ‘Wait.’ He opens the browser on his phone and pulls up the BBC News page. It’s the lead story. Beneath a picture of the girl. ‘Listen to this.’ He reads aloud: ‘US reality star Caitlyn Lock, daughter of Vice President Thom Lock and actress Kylie Lock has disappeared from her father’s home in south London with an unnamed man. Miss Lock, twenty-two years old, is thought to be in the southwest of the country and police have issued an appeal for anyone who sees her to call them immediately on the number below. She is of athletic build, five feet nine inches tall, has dark shoulder-length hair, brown eyes.’ He pockets the phone. ‘You went to the Sanctuary after we split up this morning, does it sound like the girl?’

Musca can hardly answer. ‘I think so.’

Draco winces. ‘Why? Why do you think so?’

‘She’s American. There’s no doubt about that. She looks athletic and young as well.’

Draco shuts his eyes and wishes it wasn’t so. ‘Get over there now. I’ll call the Master.’ He hangs up, unsure what to do. If the girl is the daughter of the US Vice President the Americans will be going crazy to get her back. They might be using spy technology for all he knows, listening in to phone calls from all over the world.

He glances up at the sky, almost expecting to see a drone hovering above him. If they can do that, he’s said too much already. He calls the number. ‘It’s Draco. I have to see you. It’s urgent.’

‘I understand. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

They both know where for such an emergency. Draco has little time for courtesy: ‘When you hang up, dump your burner somewhere public. We may be compromised.’

The line goes dead. He breaks open the back of his phone and pulls out the battery and the sim card in order to discard them and the hardware separately. Without wasting time, he gets in his car and drives quickly but within the speed limit to the Sanctuary. He takes three detours en route to dispose of the phone. Each time he looks up and wonders whether he is being watched.

54

The Henge Master comes and goes unseen through his own entrance to the Sanctuary, one that only he knows, one disclosed in the sacred books that he inherited.

He walks the unprotected passageway to his chamber and waits for Draco. Before long there’s a knock on the heavy door and he shouts, ‘Come.’

Draco enters hesitantly.

‘Sit.’ The Master’s voice gives away his irritation at being summoned at such short notice. He gestures to the semicircle of stone benching opposite him.

Draco adjusts his cloak as he settles. His voice is low and apologetic. ‘The girl chosen by the Sacreds turns out to be the daughter of the American Vice President. It’s on the news.’

Shock registers on the Master’s face, then disappears. ‘That may well be, but as you just said, she has been chosen.’

Fear glistens in Draco’s eyes. ‘Master, do we not need to distance ourselves from her? The US security services and every police officer in Britain are going to be searching for her.’

‘And they are more important than those we follow?’

‘No, Master.’

‘I repeat — she has been chosen. Has she not?’

‘Yes, Master, but—’

‘Enough.’ The Master’s sharp tone cuts right through him. ‘Our beliefs, our activities have gone uninterrupted by the police for centuries. Our existence has been kept secret for thousands of years. That is not due to luck. We are guided by the will of the Sacreds and that is a greater force than any police constabulary or government in existence.’

Draco understands. ‘I am sorry. I believed caution would be prudent.’

The Master nods. ‘You have done well to consider it and are right to alert me.’ He looks over his steepled fingers. ‘The girl is the one on the radio, Caitlyn Lock?’

‘Yes.’

‘And her boyfriend — what of him?’

Draco swallows. He fears the blunder could somehow be seen as his fault. ‘The boyfriend is dead. He died when he and the girl were taken by the Lookers. It was an accident.’

The Master doesn’t look concerned. ‘Or it was the will of the Sacreds. Perhaps the male was not worthy. What of his body and the vehicle the press are speaking of?’

‘In a barn not far from here on land we control.’

‘Dispose of both, quickly.’ The Master rises from the stone seat. ‘We are done. I am expected back. Call the Inner Circle and inform them of our meeting and my wishes. The stars are aligning, the moon is changing. We go ahead as planned.’

55

Megan is assigned to run actions on the Campervan and report directly to Tompkins. In addition to Jimmy Dockery, she’s been given two other detective sergeants — Tina Warren and Jack Jenkins. Warren is a waster. She can tell that already. Fit to make tea, run errands and put petrol in a car. Jenkins is more promising. Newly promoted, a little green but bright.

Megan divides the work. ‘Jack, get a statement from this friend of Caitlyn’s, the one she last spoke to. Ask her again about the vehicle. I know she didn’t get a description but ask. She may remember something.

‘Jim, take a team to the Fleet service station on the M3. We are looking for CCTV footage from the garage forecourt, also from the car park — it’s likely they used the toilets as well. Ask in the shops and restaurants, hand out photographs, jog memories. They probably bought something out there. Find out what — and who sold it to them. If we’re lucky, they asked for a guide map or even directions. Check with all the security. They may have images of the couple on a camera here or there. Tina, get interview teams at the services before and after Fleet. See if they stopped there.’

They all look at her for further instructions.

‘Now, please. Treat this as though the girl’s life depends upon it.’

Even before they’ve gone, Megan rings a friend in traffic and asks for a list of Campervans. While she waits, she goes online and sets up a vehicle search. There are dozens of campers: Fiat Cheyennes, Ducatos and Komets, Ford Transit Auto-Sleepers, Winnebagos, VW Transporters, Toyota Hiaces, Hymers, Bedfords, Mercs. Then she stops. Her profiling instincts kick in and she starts to think. Not about the vehicle. About the people in it. Impulsive people. Rich people. Caitlyn is hardly likely to move in the circle of paupers. Her lover will have money. He will want to impress her. Surprise her.

None of the vans on her screen do that. She types ‘Celebrity Camper vans’ and fifty-three thousand entries appear in a third of a second. Over fifty pages of results. The one topping her lists is the VW. She hits a link: ‘VW Campervans for hire’.

It brings a smile to her face. It’s the Mystery Machine. The van Scooby-Doo and Shaggy drove around in. She types in ‘VW Camper vans to hire in London.’ Her heart sinks. Half a million results. She browses and it turns out not to be as bad as she thought. The keyword search is too loose, it’s inaccurate — she should have written ‘Campervans’ not ‘Camper vans’. She finds a number for a VW Campervan Association and soon assembles a shortlist of dealers in the London area.

After a couple of hours the list is even shorter. Several people hired Campervans within the last twenty-four hours but only one stands out. He paid on an Amex Gold card and his name is Jake Timberland. Her heart jumps — the way it always does when she knows she’s got her man. Before telling the DCI, she has one more call to make. One she’s dreading. Sammy is going to need looking after again.

56

Caitlyn can’t move. She can’t see and can’t breathe properly.

She feels like she’s been buried, standing up. Entombed in stone. There’s barely enough room to raise her hands to her face and feel the sweat of fear pouring off her.

‘Jake! ’ She screams his name but knows he’s not going to answer.

Emblazoned in her memory is an image of him slumped on the ground inside the strange stone circle. There was something about the way he didn’t move that made her feel sick. ‘Jake!’ Somehow shouting his name keeps him alive. At least in her mind.

Her fingers feel the rough stone in front of her. They find a tiny slit and the thin stream of air that’s keeping her alive. She just hopes whoever took her captive are professionals — seasoned kidnappers who know what they’re doing and not weirdo rapists or serial killers. If it’s a pro kidnap gang, they’re after money and her life is not in danger. Well, not immediately. Soon they’ll come and clean her up, feed her, make the film, a message to her parents most likely, and the game will start. She’s been trained for this. Eric Denver has run her through it dozens of times and her father has run her through it. Even her damned mother has gone over the possibility with her that this might happen.

She sees now that she was crazy to go with Jake. To slip out of the safety of her own security net. A bad thought hits her. One that saps what little remains of her esteem. Maybe Jake helped set her up. Perhaps he’d been thinking about it right from the first moment he met her. The alternative is almost as bad. If he wasn’t, then where is he? She knows kidnappers rarely take two hostages at a time. It’s too complicated, too much of a struggle. She feels the sickness rise again.

‘Jake!’ Her scream tails off into a whimper. It’s been hours since they locked her in, since anyone talked to her. Her spine is hurting. Her shoulders, the back of her head and her knees are raw from rubbing against the stone walls. And unless she’s mistaken, and she’s pretty certain she isn’t, she’s soiled herself.

Despite the pain, the cramp and the humiliation Caitlyn keeps falling asleep. Deprived of stimulation, her crazy overactive brain simply shuts down and she drifts off, drifts to some far away place that bears no resemblance to this dank dungeon. She is in one of those fitful dozes when the cell wall slides back and she slumps forward. Men in brown robes and balaclavas beneath their hoods catch her and lower her to the ground.

She comes round on her back. Dizzy and glassy-eyed, staring at a high black ceiling and a huge cast-iron chandelier ringed with thick burning candles.

Four hooded faces appear in Caitlyn’s line of vision and a low rasping voice issues a chilling instruction. ‘Strip and wash her. The ceremony goes ahead.’

57

For once, Megan’s ex seems happy to have Sammy for the night. He even promises home-cooked food and not a Happy Meal. A weight off the working mum’s mind.

She returns to the Campervan case filling her desk and the Facebook photographs of Jake Timberland she tracked down by following the lead the Amex bill gave her. Things happen quick when there’s a break. Over in London a Met team has confirmed that the young Englishman isn’t at home in Marylebone, another is showing his picture to Caitlyn’s minders and a third is visiting Jake’s parents, Lord and Lady Timberland. Meanwhile, itemised mobile and landline phone records are being studied along with Switch and credit card bills. The wheels of investigation are turning fast.

Megan places photos of Timberland and Lock side by side. They make a good couple. The press are going to go crazy on this one. There’ll be enough pressure to squash a battleship. She looks at their faces and figures the romance — if that’s what it is — must be recent. If they’d been an item for any length of time, they would already have been splashed across the gossip mags.

Then comes a moment of doubt. Perhaps she’s got the wrong guy. Maybe there’s no connection between Jake and Caitlyn. Could be that he just happened to take a three-day minimum hire on a cornflower blue Camper on the same day she did her vanishing trick. Perhaps she’s up a hill in a Winnebago with someone else and doesn’t even know Edward Jacob Timberland exists.

It could all be coincidence.

Megan hates coincidences. Coincidences are God’s way of seeing if police officers can do their job. She hopes the motorway teams come back with video of the couple with the Camper that will prove there’s a link between everything.

She looks again at Caitlyn’s photograph and then checks the girl’s Facebook page. Obviously handled by a publicist and vetted by her father. There is nothing too personal on there — just fashion, music and girly gossip. Bland stuff.

She tries Twitter. Even more disappointing. Then she checks Jake’s Twitter account. Dating Caitlyn Lock would be the kind of thing any man would find difficult to keep quiet about. She draws a blank. There’s nothing from the last day — no hint of the journey to Wiltshire. She scrolls back twenty-four hours and feels her heart leap. Her eyes hook on a coded piece of male bragging: ‘I have a plan to win my new muse, to unlock her chains and make her mine.’

Encouraging. Even tantalising. But not quite enough. She trawls back further and finds another gem: ‘I have met this American and I’m smitten. She is everything I dreamed of.’

The remarks all point to him running off to Stonehenge with Caitlyn for some quality time out of view of her security. Lust makes everyone go crazy — even sons of English lords and daughters of American film stars. Come to think of it, especially them. They must have run off together. Gone off radar. Maybe even eloped.

No. She’s getting carried away. They certainly did not get married. The Camper was hired for three days only. Off radar is right though. They must have conspired to trick the girl’s security and grab some time together.

But something doesn’t make sense. Something she can’t quite put her finger on. Then the penny drops. Caitlyn must have planned to call in to her minder before the alarm was raised and everyone went crazy. Why didn’t she? It’s the kind of protocol her father and everyone would have drummed into her. Always call in, whatever you do, always call in. And she would have. Of course she would.

But she hasn’t. That means something is wrong. Terribly wrong.

58

Fear stabs Caitlyn like a hot spike in the heart. A group of hooded men have her pinned to the floor. She’s going to be raped. She’s sure of it. Well, she’ll bite their throats out rather than let that happen.

One grabs her left wrist, another her right. She kicks out. Feels her foot connect with soft flesh. ‘Leave me the fuck alone!’ Deep down she knows shouting and fighting is pointless but she sure as hell isn’t going to give in peacefully. ‘Get the fuck off me!’

Unseen hands clasp her ankles. They pull open her blouse and tug down her jeans. They turn her over, unclip her bra and pull off her panties. She thrashes and screams until her throat burns and her energy is spent. She’s done. She has no more resistance.

They’re going to take it in turns to debase her — she just knows they are.

Someone pulls her hair and slides a hood over her head. They haul her to her feet and cuff her hands. She’s unsure what’s happening but is relieved she’s not been molested. Firm fingers grip her arms and shoulders. They push her in the back — force her to walk. Caitlyn’s heart is beating so fast she feels like she is going to die. Don’t panic. Stay calm. She mentally repeats the instructions Eric gave her. Whatever happens, you deal with it. One second at a time you deal with it — or you die.

They walk her down dark mazy passageways, then make her step into some kind of pit. They pull the hood from her head and from the blackness above a waterfall of steaming hot water is unleashed. The shock makes her gasp for breath. She’s in some kind of step-down shower. Isn’t she?

Then Caitlyn realises. It’s not water. It’s blood.

They’re showering her in blood.

59

When Draco and Musca pull into the car park at Stonehenge, it’s crowded with staff busying themselves for the solstice. People are everywhere. Extra toilets are being set up and bins slotted on poles, ready for the avalanche of litter that will inevitably come.

Serpens wanders away from the group he’s been supervising and slips in the back door of the Merc. Draco doesn’t even wait for him to settle. ‘We have to get rid of the Camper and the body tonight.’

The Looker’s instinct for survival kicks in. ‘I’m not driving it. There are police on every major road.’

‘What about your boy?’ asks Musca. ‘Would he do it?’

‘Lacerta is young but not stupid. He’ll get stopped. You know he will.’

‘Sooner or later the police will find the vehicle,’ says Draco. ‘They are checking all roads, car parks, anywhere the dopeheads can hide. It is only a matter of time.’

‘What if we use the Ecstasy we found in the glovebox?’ says Musca. ‘Make it look like he and his girl overdosed.’

Draco shakes his head. ‘You can’t just cram drugs down his throat. He won’t be able to swallow and digest, none of the chemicals will be absorbed. The autopsy will show you did it after he’d died.’

‘What if there’s nothing of him to autopsy?’ presses Musca. ‘We torch the van and him in it, make it look like they had an accident.’

Draco’s interest is awakened. ‘How so?’

‘Well, they were tired, pulled off the road, parked up in the field for the night.’ Musca struggles to complete the picture, then adds: ‘Maybe the guy was making a cup of tea and the stove blew. The cooking gas canister went up. You should get a good explosion from one that size.’

‘Can you rig something like that?’

Serpens nods. ‘It can be done. But they’ll only find the man’s body. They’ll wonder what happened to the girl.’

Musca tries to fill in the gap. ‘They had a row. She walked off. Hitched a ride. Got dropped at the train station and is now out of the area.’ It’s the best he can manage. ‘If she’s out of the county, she’s someone else’s missing person and the police will slacken off.’

‘Can you deal with the body?’ Draco looks deep into Serpens’s eyes. ‘We need you to do this.’

He feels like he doesn’t have a choice. It was his blow that killed the guy. He wants a drink. Needs one badly. Finally he nods.

‘I’ll help you,’ volunteers Musca. ‘You don’t have to do this alone.’

60

Caitlyn opens her eyes and gasps. Blackness. She’s upright and back in the mind-numbing void that’s become her personal prison. She has no recollection of them returning her to this hell hole. She must have passed out in the shower. The shower of blood.

Slivers of light are bleeding through what must be a panel right in front of her eyes. One that can be removed so they can see her. Feed her maybe. She realises now that it’s not the same hole as she was in. It’s slightly different. The space is bigger. Not much, but still bigger.

Gradually she notices other differences. The handcuffs are gone. She can lift her arms from her sides. She feels the walls that enclose her. Stone to the front, the sides and the back. She is certainly in another crevice, no change there. She stretches her arms as wide as she can. Probably less than a metre. She can’t raise her hands beyond her elbows.

There’s something touching the back of her legs, at knee-level. A ledge? She tries to sit and finds it takes her weight. It feels like a blessing. She’s still barefoot but has been dressed in some sort of robe with a hood. She moves her head, shoulders and hips, lets the fabric rub against her. It’s rough. Feels like sandpaper against her breasts.

She starts to piece together the missing parts of the night before. They stripped her of her clothes. Showered her in blood. Dressed her in their robes. Words come back too. There weren’t many to analyse. But one was enough.

Ceremony.

That’s what someone had said. ‘The ceremony goes ahead.’

But what kind of ceremony? And what in God’s name are they going to do to her?

61

DCS John Rowlands already feels like he’s gone a week without sleep. The clock is ticking fast and the leads are coming slower than he hoped. The pressure is relentless. The Chief Constable, the Home Office, the Deputy Chief Constable and the Vice President’s private secretary are all on his back.

Teams of DCIs and DIs shuttle in and out of his office, tossing what bits of information they have on to his wrecked desk. Jude Tompkins and Megan Baker are the latest to take their turn. He greets them with what’s left of his charm. ‘Ladies, welcome to the pleasure dome. What have you got for me?’

‘Some good news.’ Tompkins clears a plate and a crust of pizza from a seat. ‘DI Baker has a positive on the vehicle. And the boyfriend.’

His blue eyes widen. ‘Tell me.’

Megan puts a ripped DVD on his desk. ‘A compilation of CCTV footage, sir. The first clip is from the petrol pumps at Fleet. It’s in colour and you can clearly see Lock and Jake Timberland, the man who paid for the Campervan rental.’

Rowlands doesn’t need his notes. ‘Son of Lord Joseph Timberland.’

‘That’s right.’

He picks up the disk and slides it into a player on a shelf beneath a TV behind him. Megan talks as he fiddles with a remote control to find the channel. ‘The vehicle you are about to see, sir, is an imported right-hand-drive Type 2 Vintage in cornflower blue with chrome wheel hubs and refurbished interior.’ A picture of the van comes up on screen. The Camper pulls up at the pump. Two figures get out. And then they become clear. Jake shows Caitlyn the pump and starts her off. Leaves her to fill up and walks towards the shop to pay.

‘Freeze it please, sir.’

Rowlands stops the picture with the remote.

‘Look in his right hand.’ Megan smiles. ‘A gold credit card. Amex. It’s the one he used to pay for the rental.’

Rowlands nods and turns off the DVD and TV. ‘Good enough for me. Jude, get someone to make copies of the footage for the investigation teams and the press. Talk to the communications office and call a conference for eight in the morning.’ He turns to Megan. ‘Well done. Make sure your team know we think they’re doing a first-class job.’

‘I will. Thank you, sir.’ She gets up to leave but pauses.

Rowlands glances at her. ‘Is there something else?’

‘Sir, if there is a press conference in the morning, I’d like to be part of it. I’d like the experience, sir.’

He smiles and turns to the DCI. ‘My, you have got an ambitious DI here.’

Tompkins nods. ‘She’s aching with it.’

He looks back to Megan. ‘No, Detective Inspector, you may not.’

‘Why not, sir?’

It’s Tompkins’ turn to smile now. ‘Two reasons, Megan,’ she says. ‘Firstly, you’re doing too good a job on the inquiry to be wasted posing about in front of cameras. Secondly, you’re too inexperienced to be put in front of those dogs. Not enough gravitas for the press pack, do you see? It’s late, so why don’t you go home, get some well-earned rest and see your kid.’

Megan has to fight not to show her anger at the put-down. ‘Thank you ma’am — for your kindness and concern — but my daughter is being well looked after by her father, so if it’s okay with you, I’ll go back to my team and resume the job. The one the Detective Chief Super says I’m very good at.’

Point made, she wheels around and walks away before they can get in the final word.

62

Serpens checks his watch. Midnight. The time has come.

He stands and waits outside the old barn, his thoughts as black as the night sky. Psychologically things are piling up. Crushing him. Pressing him down. Not giving him a moment’s relief.

The disposal of the sacrifice earlier in the month had got to him. He’d been involved in selections before but never afterwards. Never the bloody carnage of it all. And now he’s crossed the line even further. He’s taken someone’s life.

The realisation that he’d killed the man in the Camper is eating him. He’s a tough guy, been involved in plenty of fights in his time, even got a criminal record, but not for anything like murder.

Maybe if he went to the police he’d get away with a charge of ‘accidental murder’. If he came clean now and told them everything he knew, there’d be some deal to be done. Possibly even immunity from prosecution. But the Craft would get to him. They’d find him and they’d kill him. He knows they would. They have brothers in the police — in the courts — in the prisons. They’d get to him all right.

Serpens hangs his head. It’s a crisis of faith. That’s all it is. Everyone has one. He’s sure they do. Musca appears out of the clouded moonlight, a white plastic carrier bag in his right hand. ‘All right?’ he says and puts an arm around Serpens’ shoulder as they head inside. ‘Don’t worry, all this will be over in half an hour. We’ll go straight to Octans’ afterwards. He’ll alibi us. Say we’ve been there all night playing cards. Everything’s going to be fine.’

Musca always says everything will be fine. Draco too. And for them it always is. Fine lives with fine consciences, not a guilty thought in their fine heads.

The barn is lit by a paraffin lamp on an overturned wooden crate a couple of metres from the Camper. It casts a yellow delta of light into the cobwebbed rafters. The two men disturb a colony of bats as they walk to the Camper. Musca laughs and points to the fluttering creatures. ‘Creepy little fuckers. I wish I had something to shoot them with.’

Serpens pulls back the sliding door on the VW. A small interior light flickers on and reveals the fly-covered corpse. He steels himself for the task ahead. ‘What do you want to do with him?’

‘Wait. Put these on.’ Musca hands him a pair of thin latex gloves. ‘Better safe than sorry.’

Serpens stretches them and awkwardly squeezes his hands in.

‘Okay, watch and learn,’ says Musca. From the tiny kitchen he takes the complimentary food hamper left as a gift by the van hire company and smiles. ‘Just what we need.’ From cupboards he collects a plate, knife, fork, saucepan and toaster. He opens a can of beans from the hamper, tips them into the pan and places it on the cooking ring. He puts two slices of bread into the toaster and then produces a bottle of vodka from the carrier bag he brought with him. He unscrews it and pours some into a tumbler. ‘Almost there, my friend. Almost there.’

Serpens watches in a trance as Musca opens the cupboard beneath the cooker and turns on the gas. He strikes a match, lights a ring on the small hob and then turns it off and smiles contentedly. ‘So, that’s all our preparation done.’ He points to the corpse. ‘The scene is set. We have our man left on his own in the Camper after a row with his girlfriend.’ He points to the vodka. ‘Man gets blind drunk — a reasonable reaction to being ditched part-way through a romantic break, right?’ He points to the hamper. ‘Then, because he’s wasted he gets hungry and tries to make himself something to eat.’ Musca picks up the vodka bottle and splashes it around. ‘Unfortunately, because our heartbroken friend is on his way to being pissed he gets clumsy and spills his drink. On himself. On the floor. On the cooker.’ Musca raises his arms violently. ‘Voom! Suddenly he’s a fireball. He panics. Falls over and knocks himself out. Within seconds the Camper is on fire, even the barn and he tragically burns to death.’ Musca pulls down the corners of his lips to create a sad face. ‘Sometimes unrequited love ends badly.’

Serpens is not in any state to fault the plan. ‘So the fire destroys the evidence?’

‘Right.’ He wags a finger. ‘But we should take care.’ He points to the body. ‘First off we pour half this bottle into Mr Heartbreak. Then we make it look like he fell. We crack his head on something — in the same place where you hit him. That way any autopsy will find the injury is what they term “consistent with the fall” and not with you whacking him.’ He grins. ‘Finally, we soak him in the last of the voddie, light our bonfire and run.’

Serpens looks disturbed but nods his agreement.

‘Okay, let’s get it done. Help me sit him upright.’

Timberland’s body is heavy and cumbersome. It makes sickening cracking and gassy noises as they pull it into a sitting position. Musca tilts the head back, pulls the lips apart and pours vodka down the dead man’s throat. Serpens wants to throw up.

‘Best let some of that settle for a minute,’ says Musca. ‘Or else it’ll just come straight back up.’ He leaves Serpens holding the corpse while he turns on the gas, heats the beans and makes the toast. ‘All done. Let’s move him to the drawers there, in the wall opposite the cooker. Open the bottom one. We can make it look like he slipped and cracked his head.’

Serpens flips it open and takes a deep breath. The two men struggle again to lift the body. Timberland was smaller than both of them but he’s like a rag doll and weighs a ton. Finally, Musca takes him under the arms, slides him backwards and drives the back of the skull down on to the bottom drawer.

He lets the body fall and stands back to admire his work.

A little vodka has spewed out of Timberland’s mouth, on to his shirt front and on to the floor. Apart from that it’s perfect.

‘Finale time. You ready?’

‘Guess so.’

Musca takes the open bottle of vodka and pours it over the head and chest. He lays the empty near the hands. He turns off the gas under the beans to extinguish the flames. When he’s sure it’s out he turns it on again and cranks it up high.

He gives Serpens a look, takes the carrier bag that he brought with him and unscrews the other bottle of spirits. He douses the corpse again and the cooker then points to the door. ‘Best stand outside.’

They step out of the Camper into the cold barn and the yellow paraffin light. Serpens watches Musca pour the last of the vodka on to the floor of the van and return the empty to his carrier bag. ‘Three, two, one.’ He strikes the match. Lets it catch, then throws it on to the floor near the corpse.

‘Run!’

They sprint like scared kids through the barn and out into the surrounding field. From the safety of the darkness, they see flames building. The old wood begins to crack in the rising fire. Suddenly, there is a guttural thud. The cylinder explodes.

The barn’s rafters splinter and fall in. A scream of nesting bats scuttle skywards away from the spiralling orange flames.

63

Caitlyn knows about women who’ve been held captive for years. Imprisoned in cellars. Even locked in wooden crates. She knows of their horrors because Eric told her all about them. Said it would teach her to be careful — remind her to stay safe. The unlearned lesson chills her. Maybe others have suffered her fate, entombed in a thick stone wall, where you can scream your lungs out and never be heard.

Eric’s warnings drift back to her. The horror stories he’d thought would keep her safe. Teenager Danielle Cramer from Connecticut, kept in a secret room under a staircase for a year. Nina von Gallwitz, held for 149 days until her parents paid out more than a million Deutschmarks to get her back. Fusako Sano from Japan, kept captive for ten years. An entire decade.

She can remember them all. All their faces. And they were the lucky ones. Eric showed her the long list of Dutch, American, English and Italian women who had not been so fortunate. Ones who had been taken, held and killed, even though ransoms had been paid.

His words come back and haunt her. ‘They take you for sex, for money, for torture, even to get revenge on you or your parents. These are dangerous people, Caitlyn. Some of them are insane enough to take you just to become famous. Whatever you do, don’t mess with our security.’

But she had done. She screwed up and she can’t make it good. She wants to cry. Wants to sob her heart out. But she doesn’t. She won’t. She tells herself that she never cried during thirty-nine days of Survivor and she sure as hell isn’t going to start now.

Caitlyn tries to think of something different. She recalls her time on the reality show. The welcome party, the first tasks, the guys who were hot for her. Thirty-nine days, twenty competitors, fifteen episodes that made her a household name. Once she swam naked during the live telecast. It gave the censors a fit. Damned nearly got the whole series scrapped. But it was a ratings blockbuster.

She’d do it again. Any time. Shock and glamour have become her middle names. It almost makes her smile. Even in this dusty crevice of a prison she can still taste the sweetness of her old life — the money, the fame, the controversy caused by her wild spirit. But for how long? she asks herself. How long before the whackballs holding her send her mad?

64

Gideon is down to the last two tapes.

He’s watched close to forty and despite the thunderstorm raging in his head, he’s determined to view the last of them before turning in.

He slides one into the player and watches his father appear on screen. The young professor doesn’t look much older than Gideon is now. After a few seconds, Marie Chase can be heard behind the camera: ‘I think it’s working, Nate. Yes, yes, the red light is flashing. You can start when you want.’

Nathaniel takes a breath to compose himself and brushes a straggle of windblown hair from his face. He’s wearing a thick blue fleece, dark pants and walking boots. There’s snow on the ground and an all-too-familiar backdrop. Stonehenge. ‘I take you back almost five thousand years,’ he announces, sweeping his hand across the landscape. ‘Back to the days when our ancestors dug this circular ditch, some three hundred feet in diameter, twenty feet wide and up to seven feet deep.’ He squats on the ground and places his hands in a furrow where the ditch had been. ‘Beneath this spot, archaeologists found the bones of animals that died two hundred years before this ditch was even dug. Why did our forefathers put them there? Why use a pile of old bones to line a new ditch? The answer of course is that these bones came from special sacrifices to the ancient gods.’

Gideon smiles. His father the self-publicist had been well known for spicing up dull university lectures with his own home movies. On the screen, the young professor leaves the ditch and as he walks the circumference of the stones expounds a now familiar theory about the discovery of more than two hundred human skeletons on the site. ‘The seventeenth-century historian John Aubrey found these burned human bones in fifty-six different holes. Were they too offerings to the gods? Was Stonehenge both a crematorium and a temple, a ritual slaughterhouse for celestial gratification?’

Having just read the diaries from a decade later, Gideon finds it strange to watch his father pose the questions in such a sceptical tone. Stranger still to think of what might actually be true. The tape rolls on to the final stage of development: ‘Some three thousand years ago, unknown hands moved these bluestones from the Preseli Mountains. We still do not know how they achieved such a feat. They were erected as a circular monument, the entrance aligned towards sunrise at the summer solstice.’ Nathaniel walks to the bigger sandstones, his hand stretching to the skies. ‘These giant sarsens, some more than three times my height and weighing as much as forty tons. Stood on their ends by incredibly talented ancient builders, they were capped with horizontal sarsens using sophisticated mortise and tenon joints, a technique that seems way before its time.’ He walks deeper into the circle. ‘Here in the heart of the henge, a horseshoe-shaped arrangement, five pairs of standing sarsens with giant horizontal caps — the trilithons.’

Gideon views the rest of the tape at double and even quadruple speed, making his father comically dash all over the site jerkily pointing out the Heel Stone, the Slaughter Stone and the north-eastern entrance.

He takes a short break, makes a mug of tea and returns to watch the last uncatalogued video. He pulls it from its cardboard sleeve and sees a label in the centre that hasn’t been written in his father’s faded hand. It reads: ‘To Gideon, my loving son and pride and joy.’

He hasn’t seen the handwriting in decades but recognises it instantly. It’s his mother’s.

65

Jimmy Dockery pulls on a Tyvek suit and curses the fact that he’s the one who’s been called out in the dead of night. It always seems to be him that cops for the worst of jobs, the graveyard shifts with their mundane crime scenes. Any bit of mess — get Jimmy to mop it up. First it was chasing missing persons, sweeping up after some old man’s suicide, and now it’s a burned-out barn. In his head he’s a better investigator than that. If his father, the Deputy Chief, knew the kind of crap they sent him on, he’d sack them all.

Dockery flashes his ID and ducks the fluttering yellow tape. An exhausted-looking PC takes his name and he wanders into the blackened ribs of the barn. Soco arc lights illuminate the charred metal remains of the Campervan. A burned-out replica of the one he saw on the footage he recovered from the service station. The one half the police in the country are looking for. Jimmy picks his way over a non-contamination pathway to the vehicle. Inside, a man and a woman are on their knees inspecting the body.

‘Is it the girl?’ Jimmy asks. ‘The one who’s missing.’

The question bounces off the back of Home Office pathologist Lisa Hamilton.

She recognises his voice. ‘No, it’s a man — and Sergeant — just a word of warning, don’t crowd me, don’t press me, don’t annoy me and don’t on any account mess up my crime scene.’

‘Understood.’ It’s water off a duck’s back to Jimmy. Everyone is always giving him a list of don’ts. Besides, he has a soft spot for Lisa. Even at two in the morning, she triggers something primeval inside him.

From over her shoulder, he can see that the corpse looks like badly barbecued meat — a sickening mix of pinks and blacks. Tattered remnants of clothes are stuck to charred bone and tarry puddles of human fat are spread on what’s left of the base board of the Camper. Jimmy notices part of the vehicle’s metal frame is bent upwards ‘There been some kind of explosion?’

‘Gas canister by the looks of it,’ says a young SOCO, a spotty-faced lad with spiky hair. ‘From the blast pattern, it seems like it blew under the cooking ring.’

Jimmy moves around them and scans the rest of the burned-out vehicle. ‘So no sign of the girl?’ he calls over his shoulder. ‘You sure bits of her aren’t in here?’

Lisa Hamilton cranes her neck upwards from her crouch. ‘You seriously suggesting I might have missed a whole woman?’

He feels stupid. ‘Of course not. It’s just that we’re all going crazy trying to find her.’

The pathologist continues scowling. ‘This isn’t about any missing woman. Right now my concern is this man, here. And I’m trying to afford him the dignity and respect he deserves by properly investigating his death.’

Jimmy gets the message and backs off. Other SOCOs are hard at work bagging and tagging whatever can be picked or scraped from the floor and walls. He sees a stack of paper bags containing a broken tumbler, burned saucepan, an empty vodka bottle and blackened cutlery and crockery.

A female SOCO appears at his shoulder with a plastic evidence bag. ‘We discovered a driving licence and hire documents in the glove compartment. They’re smoke-damaged but intact.’

Jimmy holds the bag up to a light so he can read through the covering. The writing is just about legible. ‘Edward Jacob Timberland.’ As he says it, he feels a wave of sadness. Putting a name to the body always alters things. He calls towards the pathologist. ‘Prof, I’m going to go back to the station. When will your report be ready?’

She doesn’t break from her examination. ‘After breakfast. I’ll mail through an outline and be available mid-morning if you want me to run through it in person.’

‘Thanks.’ He’d like that. A nice chat over coffee. Who knows what might come up. Jimmy raises a hand as he leaves. ‘Goodnight everyone.’

There are muffled replies as he heads out of the barn.

‘Good morning,’ shouts the professor playfully. ‘Get your facts right, detective, it’s already morning.’

66

Gideon can feel his heart thump as he slides the old VHS tape into the player.

The woman who comes on screen is barely recognisable as the mother he loved. He expected to see the beauty from the video in Venice. Laughing. Vivacious. Full of life. But it’s not to be.

She sits in a sick bed, resting against a plump white mountain of pillows and from the angle of the camera it looks like she’s filming herself. The skeleton-thin face, the prematurely white frizzy hair and bloodshot gaze are cameos of pain.

Marie Chase is close to death as she smiles at her son through the TV monitor and through the ages. ‘Giddy, my darling. I’m going to miss you so much. I’m hoping that you will have a long and very happy life and know what a joy it is to be a parent. Once you were born, my life felt complete. I never wanted for anything more than you, me and your father to be happy together.’ She fights back her emotions. ‘Darling, that’s not to be. I don’t have much time now, but there’s something I have to tell you so I leave you this message for when you’re older, old enough to see me in this state and not be frightened.’

Gideon has to wipe tears from his face. He realises for the first time that he’d never been allowed to see his mother in her final days, in the period when she wasted away so painfully. Marie Chase is crying too as she reaches out to her only child. ‘Giddy, no one but you has ever or will ever see this recording. Not your father. Not anyone. Just you. I have something I must tell you personally and your father respects that. He is a good man and he loves you more than you know. I hope you look after each other when I’m gone.’ She reaches to the bedside cabinet and raises a glass of water to her parched lips, then forces another brave smile.

Gideon smiles back. He misses her. More than he has ever admitted to himself.

Marie Chase completes her message from beyond the grave, her final words to the son she never saw grow up. Then she tells him what she always told him at night as she switched his bedside light off and kissed his head: ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of, sweetheart. I love you and will always be there for you.’

The tape turns into a snowstorm of grey fuzz and spins noisily into rewind. Gideon is left gazing at the blank screen, his mind still fizzing from the shock of the secret that she just shared with him.

67

It’s three a.m. when Jimmy Dockery turns up at Megan Baker’s desk clutching a chipped mug full of steaming coffee. ‘You got a minute, boss?’

‘Sure.’ She waves to a seat. ‘What’s on your mind?’

He sits, looking exceptionally tired. ‘This lad that died in the Camper.’

‘Timberland.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Don’t worry. I’m not going to ask you to talk to the parents. The Met can do it. They made contact after we pulled their son’s Amex bills.’

‘It’s not that.’

‘What, then?’

He blows out a long breath and takes a steadying sip of coffee. ‘The fire scene was a mess. Parts missing from the body, probably blown off, skin melted. And his head was just a big black ball. It was all wrong.’

She understands. He’s badly shaken and doesn’t want to talk to male colleagues about how it’s affected him. ‘Do you want me to fix for you to see the psychiatrist?’

He looks aghast.

‘Jimmy, when I was training, I saw a guy hit by a train. A suicide. I couldn’t sleep for days. Eventually, I found talking to a shrink really helped me.’

‘Thanks, but I didn’t mean that. I meant the scene was wrong. Wrong for what was supposed to have gone on.’

She’s intrigued. ‘How so?’

He suddenly wonders if he’s going to make a fool of himself. ‘You’ll see the prof’s report in a few hours so maybe it’s worth waiting until then.’

‘No, go on, Jim. If you’ve got a theory, a gut feeling, I want to hear it.’

‘All right.’ He rests his elbows on her desk. ‘Location, location, location. Right?’

She looks confused.

‘That’s what estate agents say is the single most important thing.’

She nods, still not sure where he’s going.

He tries to explain. ‘So you’ve got a Campervan, a rugged little home from home. You can go anywhere in it. It’ll survive whatever the elements throw at it. But you choose to park up inside a barn. A building so far off the beaten track, I bet most locals don’t even know it’s there.’

She gets his drift. ‘Strange, I grant you. A barn isn’t the right location for a Camper.’

He relaxes a little. ‘That’s the first thing, okay. So this Timberland guy was a posh nob. A rich guy. Son of a lord, right?’

‘Right.’

‘So if a guy like that hires a vintage Camper to take his new girlfriend out, what else might he bring along for the trip?’

She thinks about it. ‘Soft drinks for the journey. Maybe snacks, probably food. I imagine champagne, maybe a bottle of rosé or a chilled white, some decent glasses.’ She gets into her stride. ‘Picnic blankets, hamper, sunglasses, maybe a surprise present for her.’

Jimmy smiles. ‘Fine. I didn’t get as far as you did but look at the list of stuff forensics identified.’ He slides a piece of newly printed A4 across her desk and watches as she reads it. ‘What you’ll see on there,’ he adds, ‘is a dented can with burned bits of beans inside, fragments of silver tin foil — probably from a chocolate bar — two empty vodka bottles and some staple foodstuffs like bread and butter. Nothing you wouldn’t expect. He probably bought some of it, but most of it is likely to have been freebies from the gift hamper that comes with the rental.’ He jabs a finger at the bottom of the sheet. ‘The little fridge in there protected what was inside from the blast. So here we have some fancy ice cream and a full bottle of Bollinger champagne.’

‘What are you getting at?’

‘The vodka. Two bottles. To have got through that but not opened the champagne that’s hard-core drinking. Surely if you buy the Bolly, that’s what you’re going to open first?’

Megan jumps to her own conclusion. ‘It’s hard to start a fire with champagne, but not with vodka. You think the spirits were used as an accelerant?’

He shrugs. ‘I’m not even sure you can set fire to champagne, can you?’

‘I don’t know. She looks off into the distance, remembers another world, her wedding when she last drank champagne. I’m not going to waste any trying to find out though.’ She thinks about his hunch. ‘You’re right, the vodka bottles and the champagne don’t make sense. Nor does parking a van inside a barn. And the fact that the girl is still missing makes me even more suspicious.’

Jimmy swings a chair alongside Megan’s desk. ‘Do you think maybe the two of them had a fight over something and she cracked him one, a bit harder than she meant, then panicked?’

Megan shakes her head. ‘Not her. Remember who she is. The daughter of the Vice President wouldn’t behave like a halfwit and try to torch the scene, she’d have called Daddy for help.’

He sees her point. ‘And I guess it doesn’t explain the vodka bottles, either.’

‘Quite. What I’m wondering though, is why she wasn’t in the Camper with him.’

‘They had a row and she stormed off?’

‘Doesn’t work for me. If she’d have done that, she’d have called home. This isn’t a girl who’s going to catch a train back to London.’

They sit in silence, both cycling the same thoughts. Jake Timberland is dead because someone killed him. Caitlyn Lock is missing because someone took her. Find Caitlyn and you catch the killer. Hopefully, before he kills again.

68

Serpens and Musca drive separately to Octans’ place. They shower while Volans puts their clothes and shoes in two separate sacks, ready to be incinerated later that morning. They put on the fresh clothing and footwear that’s been laid out for them.

Plates of cold pizza and cans of chilled beer mark their places at the card table. None of them speak about what has happened. They play poker, gin rummy and crib until streaks of daylight seep through the dusty window of the backroom. Four old mates on a boys’ late night out.

Grabb hasn’t touched a bite, though he’s drinking like a Viking. Disposing of the body has cemented his guilt about the killing. He only cracked the lad with a small rock, no bigger than the palm of his hand. It shouldn’t have killed him. The kid must have had some skull defect or something wrong with his brain.

But Serpens can’t escape it. He’s a killer and it doesn’t sit easy. If he gets caught, it will be the end of his parents. They’re in their eighties, barely mobile, living in sheltered accommodation. They stuck by him when he went to prison. His mother thinks he’s stayed out of trouble since then. Gone straight. Grown up. Become someone they are proud of.

‘Do you want another card or are you going to stick?’

Serpens looks at Musca and throws his hand in. ‘I have to go and get some rest.’ He turns to the other two men. ‘Thanks for this, for the food and everything.’

Musca gets up, follows him to the door. ‘You okay to drive? Do you want me to take you home?’

He shakes his head. ‘I’m fine.’

Something has broken between them. Musca feels it. ‘Why don’t you come back and stay with me for the rest of the day? It might help you.’

‘I’m fine, I told you.’ There’s tension in his voice.

They briefly lock eyes, then Serpens opens the front door and walks out into the cool light of dawn.

Musca follows. ‘Hang on.’

Serpens is past hanging on. He zaps open his Warrior.

Musca halts him with a firm hand on his shoulder. ‘Wait a minute, we really need to—’

The punch Serpens throws is fast. It’s one that’s been in his mind for three months. Borne out of frustration, nurtured by resentment, unleashed with anger. It hits Musca smack in the mouth, sends him staggering backwards and falling on the pavement.

By the time Musca puts a hand to his lips and sees the blood, the Warrior has already spun rubber and gassed exhaust down the street.

Octans and Volans stand in the doorway looking worried. The noise, the altercation. The scene may well have been witnessed. But they’re nowhere near as worried as Musca. He knows Serpens is going to be a problem. A big problem.

69

Chief Constable Alan Hunt likes his desk tidy. A tidy desk is a tidy mind. Always end the day with it clear, no business unsettled. John Rowlands, who is sat opposite him, would say it’s because he came up the modern way. Masters degree in law. Fast-tracked through the ranks. Chairman of the Association of Chief Police Officers. Home Office golden boy with political nous and a financial expertise at stretching budgets.

Sat next to the Chief Super and across from Hunt is the crumpled shape of Deputy Chief Constable Greg Dockery. It’s six a.m. and there is only one piece of outstanding business ruining the otherwise clear slab of beech between the three men: a large blow-up of Caitlyn Lock.

Hunt’s small and tidy hands touch the photo. ‘So where is she, John? Why haven’t we heard anything from whoever has her?’

Rowlands scratches grey stubble peppering his chin. ‘I expect the kidnappers to make contact later today. They seem to be professional. Happy enough to kill the boyfriend to take her. Now they have her, I’m sure they’ll issue a ransom demand.’

‘I agree,’ says Dockery. ‘I would take the silence to mean they’ve been busy. Probably monitoring the situation. Watching how we react to her disappearance. They may well have moved the girl by another vehicle to a safe location.’

Rowlands taps his watch ominously. ‘The first forty-eight applies to kidnapping more than most.’

Dockery sees the Chief frown. The boss’s fast-tracked ascendancy evidently excluded force jargon. ‘John means the first forty-eight hours, sir. Statistically, our chances of solving a major crime — especially kidnapping or murder — are halved if we don’t catch the offender in the first two days.’

Hunt smiles. ‘I only believe in good statistics, Gregory, you should know that.’ There’s polite laughter around the table, then he adds, ‘After I got your call about the Timberland boy, I rang Sebastian Ingram at the Home Office to update him. They’re putting the SAS on standby and want the Yard to send over a team from its Specialist Crime Directorate.’

Dockery knows better than to doubt the wisdom of such a move. Rowlands is less diplomatic. ‘Sir, this is our inquiry. We are more than capable of handling it. I’ve had direct experience of hostage negotiations.’

The Chief tries to placate him. ‘It’s not about ability, John; it’s about political responsibilities and budgets. We are scratching for funds to keep traffic cars on the road. An investigation like this could bleed us dry for the rest of the financial year.’

Dockery tries to sweeten the pill. ‘We’ll make sure you stay involved. Whoever they dump on us. He’s going to have to work every bit as long and hard as you and your team.’

The desk phone rings. They all know a call this early won’t be good news. Hunt takes it and briefly talks to his secretary before being put through to someone important enough to make him sit up straight and grow tense.

After less than a minute, he replaces the phone on its cradle and coolly passes on his news. ‘Gentlemen, Vice President Lock and his ex-wife have just boarded a private jet in New York and will be with us shortly.’

70

Stripped to the waist and barefoot in black tracksuit bottoms, Draco exercises in the purpose-built gym at his lavish country home. The long, mirrored-walls indulge a near-constant checking of the muscles he’s painstakingly crafted. He looks ten, maybe twenty years younger than his actual fifty. Serpens is on his mind. A man he never liked. One he is sure is true to his star name — the snake.

A few metres away, his burner rings. The call he’s been waiting for. The update. He abandons his sixth mile on the treadmill, guns down the music channel on a sixty-inch plasma and answers it. ‘Everything go all right?’

‘Not everything.’ Musca sounds tense. ‘We got the job done as planned but our man has fallen ill.’

Draco understands the code. ‘Anything to seriously concern us?’ He picks a white hand towel off a bench and mops sweat from his face.

‘Possibly, yes.’

Draco drops the towel and reaches for a water bottle. ‘Where is he now?’

‘At home.’

‘Check on him. See if he’s feeling any better.’

Musca rubs his jaw, nursing the spot where Serpens punched him. ‘I’ll wait until lunchtime, let him sleep a little, then I’ll go round and have a chat.’

‘Don’t leave it too long.’ Draco thinks on it a second. ‘Best not to take any unnecessary chances at the moment. If he’s really sick, we need to find a cure. A permanent one.’

71

Gideon is almost too exhausted to leave his bed. His mother’s video message and her goodbye secret were the final straw. Grief, insomnia and emotional turmoil are now all taking their toll. First there had been his father’s revelations — the Sacreds, the Followers, the sacrifices. Then cancer. The CLL that killed his mother. Then her private words to him. Arrows in his heart.

He heads downstairs and triggers a nerve-jangling burst of bells. Still in shock, he turns off the alarm system that he’d forgotten he’d set the night before. Heart still pounding, he makes a mug of dark tea and sits by the kitchen window to watch the last of the sunrise.

Briefly, as golden light comes over the trees and flower beds, he forgets the personal horrors in his life. Then, when the tea is gone and the distraction over, the worries come back. Are his genes ticking time-bombs, primed to explode like his mother’s did? Or did the strange childhood baptism his father performed with water from the stones cure him? He remembers the words in the journals: ‘I will willingly give my own blood, my own life. I only hope it is worthy. Worthy enough to change things. To alter the fate that I know awaits my poor, motherless son. I put my trust in the Sacreds, in the bond I make with them, in the clear blood of mine that I pledge to purify that of my child’s.’

Gideon wearily trudges back upstairs to the diaries. They lie strewn where he left them, open at pages that seemed significant. So many refer to the stones. Stonehenge, a site his father published books on, its links to the vernal equinox, the earth’s precessional cycle, its mystical connections with the celestial equator, Plato, the Great Sphinx.

Mumbo-jumbo. That’s what he always felt it was. Yet some of the fragments he’s discovered are coming together, forming a path like crazy paving that leads to the heart of his strange and troubled childhood. His father forced him to learn Greek, wrote codes in it and gave him the worst birthday gift a ten-year-old could ever get — a copy of Plato’s Republic. Not the racing bike he’d lobbied for but instead a wedge of impenetrable philosophy about happiness, justice and the fitness of people to rule.

Looking at the diaries, he sees the old philosopher’s shadows in his father’s words. Passages emphasise the role of the Sacreds in celestial mechanics and the Platonic year — the time required for a single complete cycle of the precession of the equinoxes. In hard numbers, about 25,800 years. About the same amount of time Gideon thinks it will take him to fully decode and understand everything his father has written.

72

Chief Constable Alan Hunt heads up the eight a.m. press conference. News of Jake Timberland’s death and the imminent arrival of the girl’s parents have ratcheted up the pressure. He can’t let this go wrong. Not when he’s in the running for the Met Commissioner’s job. He knows that how he handles this inquiry is going to determine whether or not he gets the job.

Reporters settle around a well-planted forest of TV cameras and radio microphones. Flanked by Dockery and Rowlands, he taps the desk microphone and hears thunder crackle across the hall. He learned long ago of the benefits of knowing the sound levels before you speak. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for attending at such short notice. At two o’clock this morning, my officers discovered the body of a thirty-one-year-old male in a burned-out vehicle. A vehicle we had been seeking to locate in relation to the disappearance of Caitlyn Lock, who most of you know is the daughter of Kylie Lock and Vice President Thom Lock.’ The Chief pauses to give the print journalists a chance to get their notes up to speed. ‘Given this development, I have asked that our force receive the assistance of expert officers from the Metropolitan Police.’ He raises a cautionary hand. ‘I need to stress to you that these are preventative and cautionary measures. At this moment we have no indication of Miss Lock’s whereabouts and have received no communication from her or anyone else to suggest that her life is in danger. Operational command of the inquiry is currently in the hands of Chief Superintendent Rowlands, reporting directly to Deputy Chief Constable Dockery. They are ready — within reason — to answer your questions, but first they have a request for your assistance.’

DCS Rowlands clears his throat, picks up a press pack and holds it high so everyone can see the photograph of Caitlyn on its front. ‘You are all going to receive one of these handouts. Inside is a DVD containing video footage and still photographs of Miss Lock, the man she travelled down from London with, Jacob Timberland, and the VW Campervan they were driving. We are interested in any sightings of this van or these people over the last twenty-four hours. No matter how trivial people think it is, we urge them to come forward and tell us exactly what they saw.’

A reporter jumps in. ‘Can you confirm that the dead man is Jake Timberland, the son of Lord and Lady Timberland?’

Rowlands bats him off. ‘The family of the deceased has not yet formally identified the body, so that is not something I am prepared to do.’

‘Can you confirm that the dead man was murdered?’

Again he reacts cautiously. ‘I am yet to receive the full report from the Home Office pathologist who carried out the post-mortem examination. I won’t prejudge her findings.’

‘Where was the dead man found?’

Rowlands hesitates. ‘The exact location is something we are not currently prepared to disclose. I hope you understand there are aspects of this case that we need to hold back for operational reasons.’

An old hack with skin the colour of bacon sniffs an opening. ‘Is that because you fear Caitlyn Lock has been abducted and only the kidnappers know the location of where they murdered her boyfriend?’

It’s an astute question and too close to the truth for comfort. Greg Dockery steps in to field it. ‘I have to emphasise what DCS Rowlands has said. The investigation is in its early stages and there is information that we need to hold back for operational reasons. We need you to respect that and help us find Caitlyn. You won’t help her, us, or even yourselves with speculative journalism.’

Hunt senses that the reporters are going to keep on poking and prodding unless they get something juicier. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I can’t overstate the importance of your role in this inquiry. Responsible reporting is essential. There may be an innocent reason behind Miss Lock’s disappearance, there may not. If she is being detained against her will, those people will be reading everything you write and listening to everything you say. That is why we have to be circumspect. At this point that is all we have to say. Thank you for your attendance.’ He allows a fractional pause for unrest to grow, then gives them what he knows will be their headline lead: ‘Later this morning, I will be meeting in person with Vice President Lock and Kylie Lock, who are flying in from New York as we speak. I hope to have good news for them. I hope we will have knowledge of their daughter’s whereabouts and if not, I hope to reassure them that the force and the people of Wiltshire, and the government and people of the United Kingdom, are doing everything within their powers to find her and bring her safely home. Thank you again for your attendance.’ He stands, grabs his papers from the desk and walks slowly and confidently off the conference stage.

73

News that the Met has been drafted in doesn’t go down well at the post-press conference team briefing.

Jude Tompkins pulls Megan aside at the end. ‘The Chief Super has just talked to Barney Gibson from the Specialist Crime Directorate. He’ll be here in an hour with a couple of others and they’ll take over operational control. John will report to them and I will report to him. I need you to go to see the pathologist, get a briefing on Timberland’s death. Once you’ve reported back, you’re off the case.’

Megan is stunned. ‘What?’

‘Did you mean, pardon, ma’am?’

‘I thought Rowlands said I was doing a good job.’

‘You were. Right up until the point you wanted to dance in the spotlight. Now I need you to go and carry out my orders, not question them. Warren and Jenkins have already been reassigned.’

Megan manages a polite nod before turning away and mouthing a silent stream of obscenities that doesn’t stop until she’s back in CID.

Jimmy Dockery calls to her from his desk ‘Boss—’

She doesn’t let him finish. ‘Get your coat, Jimmy, you’ve pulled.’ She grabs her jacket off the back of a chair and her car keys off the desk.

74

Serpens is in meltdown.

The guilt is unbearable. Images flash relentlessly in his tortured mind. The young man dismembered and minced at the abattoir. The vodka-soaked body set ablaze in the Campervan in the barn. There is no escape from it all.

Despite this being the busiest time of the year for the security company where he works, he calls in sick. Head pounding, he guns up the old Mitsubishi and drives. He has to get away from it all. Find some peace.

An hour later he’s in Bath. A well-scrubbed tourist city where he holidayed as a child. A place with happy memories. Maybe enough for him to come to peace with himself.

He parks at the Southgate Centre and buys a six pack of lager and half a litre of Scotch. Wise old locals glare soberly at him as he drinks while he wanders. By the time he’s circled Grand Parade and Boat Stall Lane, the beer is finished. He takes a leak in bushes off Orange Grove and meanders east towards the banks of the river.

Resting in the cool shade, his back against a tree by the water, closes his tired eyes. A monstrous mosaic of sounds and sights forms in his head — the empty noise of the rolling bottle that Musca threw into the Camper, the rough scratch of a match, the dull boom that rocked his heart and the fireball that roared through the Camper, splitting the old barn’s parched rafters.

Serpens unscrews the top of the Scotch and takes a swig as hot as the flames that haunt him. The more it burns the better. He swallows it down in painful gulps. He killed the guy. Cracked him with a rock and brought his life to an end. One minute the poor sap is on top of the world, making out with his girl, then thwack, he’s dead and his corpse is about to be burned to cinders.

Serpens’ phone rings. It’s not a shock, it’s been going all morning. He knows who it is and what they want. He pulls it from his pocket and hurls it into the river. Plosh. Makes him smile for the first time in days. He takes another jolt of booze and coughs. It must have gone down the wrong way. Nearly drowned himself. Drowned in Scotch, now that would be a fitting way to end it all, wouldn’t it?

Noisy children run past him. A red-faced young boy chases an older girl who’s teasing him. Life in the making. He gets groggily to his feet, watches them spin around a tree, giggle and head back to a tartan picnic blanket, where a woman is laying out cling-filmed sandwiches and cans of pop. Happiness. An alien world to him.

Serpens gulps more of the whisky. Pours it down his throat until it kicks back like water in a blocked drain. He drops the bottle to the balding grass, spreads his arms wide and falls like a felled tree into the fast flow of the Avon.

75

Under the brutal glare of the autopsy lights, Jake Timberland’s body looks even worse than Jimmy Dockery remembers it. What’s left of the fire-blackened and blast-damaged corpse has been opened up and the internal organs extracted and weighed.

Professor Lisa Hamilton reads the minds of the two detectives opposite her. ‘It wasn’t the fire or the explosion that killed him. The blast blew out some of the blaze in the van interior so there was enough viable tissue, organs and fluid left to establish that he’d been lying dead on his left side for about ten hours before his body was burned.’

Megan double-checks the time. ‘Ten hours?’

‘About that.’ Lisa explains her approximation. ‘After death, gravity takes over. Blood stops pumping from the heart and as it settles it marks the tissue.’ She gestures to the splayed corpse. ‘He was moved a long time after his heart had stopped beating. We know this because of the extent and position that the blood stained the skin. Somebody moved him from the position he’d originally been left in after death and laid him out in the Camper to make it look like he’d had an accident. Unfortunately, they dropped him on the wrong side, his right, with his back slightly raised. Entirely inconsistent with the evidence provided by post-mortem staining.’

She moves around the autopsy table and glides a hand over Jake’s grey torso. ‘The cause of death is a massive heart attack, brought on by a heavy single blow to the back of his skull with some form of improvised weapon. I found particles of soil and some pretty dense rock embedded in the bone.’

Jimmy paints the scene. ‘So, he’s hit on the back of the head outside somewhere, then shifted back into his van and laid out on the floor by the cooker. The offender sets the Camper on fire to make it look like our friend here had been on the booze, fallen over and caused the blaze.’

Lisa nods. ‘Almost. Remember, I said that there was postmortem staining on his left side because that’s how he’d been lying for ten hours.’

Megan understands her point. ‘What you’re saying is, whoever killed him spent those ten hours working out what to do. Eventually, they came up with the plan to put the Camper in the barn, move him around to look like he’d fallen and then torch everything.’

‘Exactly. Another thing: although forensics found two empty vodka bottles near the body, there were no traces of metabolised alcohol in his system. His blood showed only tiny amounts of ethanol but the liver was clean. This is entirely inconsistent with him consuming vast amounts of spirits.’ Jimmy is about to ask a question, but Lisa doesn’t let him. ‘Examination of lung tissue showed no evidence of smoke inhalation. No particles, no tissue damage. Nothing. He’d clearly stopped breathing before the fire had started.’

‘The whole scene was faked,’ concludes Megan. ‘Credit where it’s due, Jimmy, it’s exactly as you said it was.’

‘Really?’ says Lisa, expressing genuine shock.

‘Really,’ repeats Jimmy, proudly.

76

The Master keeps his phone call with Draco as short as possible. ‘Have you solved our operational problem?’

‘Unfortunately not. Our man wasn’t available.’

‘Uncontactable?’

‘I am afraid so. He isn’t on any of his numbers. I’ve left messages but he hasn’t returned them. And he phoned in sick at work.’

‘And do you think he is?’

‘No. I’ve been to his house and he’s not there. Nor is his vehicle.’

The Master tries to be positive. ‘He has been under stress lately. It could be that he felt the need to get away, clear his head. Would that fit his character?’

Draco is not sure. ‘It’s possible. I have people asking his friends where he might have gone. We’re also trying to get one of them to reach out to him. Perhaps he’ll return their calls.’

‘Good.’

Draco feels the need to reassure his leader. ‘We’ll find him.’

‘I am banking on you doing exactly that. Hold for a moment.’ He pauses while an assistant presents him with a file of documents for signature and in a hushed voice reminds him of his lunch appointment with a county judge. He waits until the assistant has left before picking up the conversation with Draco. ‘And on the other matter, I have a plan to give us some breathing space. Can you meet me?’

‘Of course. What time?’

The Master checks the calendar on his desk. ‘Three p.m.

I’ll have about an hour. Don’t be late.’

77

Megan and Jimmy park a mile from the burned-out barn. It’s in the middle of the largest area of chalky grassland in north-west Europe. A bleak and isolated table of endless land.

Down in a dip dotted with wild flowers they finally see the charred hulk, an ugly black wound on Salisbury Plain’s soft green skin. Megan points to tracks through the grass. Vehicle marks and footmarks heading to and from the barn. ‘Have we got lifts of any tyre prints?’

‘I think so.’

She scowls at him. ‘You’re a DS; you either know so or it isn’t so. Make sure we have them.’ They walk on a few steps and she sees he’s hurt by her sudden frostiness. She stops. With time and patience she knows he could become a good copper. ‘Look around Jimmy and you’ll hear the grass tell you stories, tales of who’s been coming and going.’ She leans close, so that his eyes are guided along her pointing finger. ‘Over there — those deep depressions are where the fire trucks came in.’ She swings him round and points again. ‘Over here — indentations from at least three different kinds of vehicles, much lighter ones than the first. I’d take a guess at some of these coming from our Camper and maybe two other vehicles.’

‘Why two others?’

She wishes she had a tape measure to help explain. ‘Look at the depth and the width of each track. This gives you the thickness of the tyres and indicates the length of the wheelbases. Do you see now that they’re different?’

He does. ‘So two cars. That would mean at least two people.’

‘Good. Get traffic to carry out a thorough inspection. SOCOs will have looked at the marks already but traffic are best at this type of thing.’ She squats down and gazes across the grooves in the long grass. ‘Question: why would these people be travelling separately rather than together?’

He looks up and down the tracks, then hazards a guess. ‘One guy stays in the barn minding the Camper and our deceased. The other one goes away to do something, maybe get the vodka, arrives later?’

‘Good.’ She gives him an impressed nod as she stands again. ‘Let’s go further. What does that tell you?’

He’s confused. ‘What do you mean?’

‘What does that tell you about the relationship between the two men?’

Jimmy’s lost. Behavioural science is foreign to him.

Megan helps out. ‘One of them is a doer, the other is a teller. The guy who stays with the body is the doer. It’s the worst and riskiest of jobs. He was told to do it by the teller. This is evidence of rank, a pecking order, a structure that those two parties accept.’ Her eyes wander to the massive black wound in the earth and scabs of charred barn timbers. ‘Of course, it might be two doers at the scene and two tellers arriving later.’

‘Organised crime?’

She shrugs. ‘Of sorts. Just how organised, we’re still to find out.’

78

By mid-morning Gideon needs a break. He makes a short trip to the shops and returns with a newspaper, two-litre carton of milk and stack of ready-meals. He wolfs down a greasy, microwaved lasagne then resumes his decoding of the diaries.

Very quickly it becomes apparent that the more his father learned of the Followers the more he was drawn into their ways: ‘I have dispensed with my watch, such a crude instrument. My world is to be governed by an older way, one calibrated to the spiritual: sidereal time, the rule of the great astronomers, the natural instrument that we use to track the stars that guided them and their learning. The real importance of the sidereal zodiac has become known to me, the significant alignments of the great signs with the galactic equator.’

The words are as difficult to digest as the lasagne. His mind drifts back to his childhood. His father had taken him into the garden late at night and pointed out the stars. He’d named various constellations and spoken of the orbits of the sun and the moon. Magical stuff.

Across the room, beneath a dust cover in the far corner, he spots his father’s old telescope. How had he not seen it before? It’s shrouded in a polythene cover yellowed with age. Gideon bends down and unwraps it like he’s been given a surprise present.

The telescope is a Meade. So expensive, so prized, that his father never let him use it unless he was there right by him. It was an indulgence Marie would never have allowed. Thousands of pounds’ worth of reflector optics, almost observatory standard, with zero image-shift microfocuser and special mounts for cameras.

As he stands again, he cracks the back of his head on the low roof above. He gives his skull a rub and glares accusingly at the ceiling panel. It looks odd. He presses hard on it and it pops loose at the bottom. As Gideon lets go, the panel swings down on a hinge and reveals a side-sliding window and beyond it a long, flat roof.

Gideon twists a key, slides the window back and climbs out into bright sun. The ledge is bitumen, flat and turns a corner. He walks it gingerly around the hidden room to a wide open space.

Right above the centre of the house, on an area between two red-tile apexes, is a small wooden shed about ten feet long by six feet wide and five feet high. It’s so peculiar that he immediately recognises it. One of his father’s handmade observatory boxes. A shelter from the wind and rain, equipped with hinged roof.

Inside he finds his father’s things. They are spread everywhere. An old camping kettle, cups, tea bags, pens, paper, astronomical charts, reference books and photographs. Lots of photographs. On the walls and on the floor.

It is easy to imagine the old man sitting here stargazing. Lost in his own world. Drawing up charts. Gideon unrolls one of them. It shows the sun aligning with the galactic equator at the time of the summer solstice. He finds another. A depiction of the position of key planets at the point of the winter solstice.

He looks at the photographs pinned to the walls. An exhibition that he’s never seen by an artist he barely knew. There are dozens of Polaris, enough to trigger memories of his father explaining the role of the great North Star, how over the ages its position as the leading light for astronomers and sailors passed from one star to another.

He studies pictures of another star cluster: Pleiades. The Seven Sisters. A line from Byron comes to him: ‘Many a night I saw Pleiads, rising thro’ the mellow shade, Glitter like a swarm of fireflies tangled in a silver braid.’

In a nostalgic mood he sits on the floor and slowly sifts the photographs and charts. And then he sees it. A single image that shatters the pleasant moment. Stonehenge.

It’s a high-angle, side-on shot that shows the circle, not as it is now, but as it must have been when the ancients first completed it. Gideon looks closer. Faint white lines run from the giant stones to pricks of white above them. Gradually he realises what he’s looking at. Stars and constellations. The stones are aligned with planetary and stellar movements. Thin lines divide the chart into four. Tiny letters mark out north, south, east and west. Two more faded words — one at the top and one at the bottom — are barely visible. Earth. Heaven.

Gideon feels cool air prickle the back of his neck. The Followers evidently didn’t just believe Stonehenge was central to all their lives. They believed it was much more.

The centre of the sidereal zodiac.

The centre of the entire universe.

79

By the time Megan and Jimmy leave the burned-out barn, the roads have started to jam with cars crawling towards Stonehenge. Megan curses the pre-solstice traffic. They get back to HQ an hour later than she hoped. She immediately calls her ex to check on Sammy.

‘How’s it going?’ Adam sounds surprisingly chatty.

‘Good.’ She plays with the wire on the phone. ‘Or at least I thought it was until a few hours ago. I’m off the inquiry.’

‘Why?’

‘Her Majesty Jude Tompkins, that’s why.’

‘Seriously?’ He sounds sympathetic. ‘What’s going on? They scaling the case down?’

‘No. Just the opposite. They’re bringing in bigwigs from the Met. No room for yours truly. Just as it was getting interesting.’

‘You got a lead?’

‘Not on the girl, but the boyfriend’s death is now officially a murder. Pathologist confirmed it.’

Adam tries to be helpful. ‘Look Meg, if you want me to have Sammy tonight, I don’t mind. If you think some more time will get you back on the case, then I’m more than happy to have her.’

‘You sure?’

‘Totally. I love having her stay during the week.’

Adam has Sammy every other weekend. That’s the agreement. The routine. She wonders if he’s soft-soaping her for some ulterior motive. ‘What’s the catch? Because if you think I’m going to alter visiting and custody arrangements, I’m not.’

‘Don’t be cynical,’ he snaps. ‘I was just offering to help.’

She sees the door of opportunity closing. ‘Then okay, thanks. Having her tonight would really be a big help.’

‘Great. I’ll take her to KFC.’

‘Don’t you dare.’

They both hang up smiling.

Jimmy puts a mug of black tea down in front of her. ‘Don’t know how you can drink this stuff without milk.’

‘Like everything else, you get used to it.’ She leans back in her chair and checks her computer for case updates. She clicks an icon and watches a message pop open.

‘Yes! Yes! Yes! Thank you God.’

‘What?’ Jimmy leans in to read her screen.

‘Records found a match for the fingerprints SOCOs lifted from the Camper.’ She jabs at the monitor. ‘Prints from the handle of the side door and from the interior side of a window belong to one Sean Elliott Grabb. He’s got spent convictions for burglary and assault.’

‘And a lot of explaining to do,’ says Jimmy.

80

Megan feels like she’s shaking hands with a giant. The grip crushing her fingers belongs to the new man in charge, Metropolitan Police Commander Barney Gibson, from the formed Specialist Crime Directorate.

‘Take a seat,’ he says with a deceptively gentle smile. ‘And tell us about the autopsy.’

Megan sits at a table already supporting the elbows of Jude Tompkins, the Head of CID John Rowlands and Gibson’s number two, Stewart Willis. She knows this is her last chance to get back on the case. ‘Sir, the post-mortem examination was performed by Professor Lisa Hamilton. She puts the time of death at somewhere around ten hours before Jake Timberland’s body was burned in the Camper. Her findings mean that the blaze was staged to make it look like he’d been killed in a drink-related accident. He hadn’t.’ She slides a full copy of the post-mortem examination across the table. ‘This report clearly indicates that Timberland had been murdered.’

Gibson speed-reads the first page ‘Cause of death?’

‘It’s on the next page, sir. Blunt trauma and heart attack. He was hit on the back of the head with something heavy like a rock.’

‘Not a rock but something like a rock?’ He glares at Megan.

‘It may have been a rock, sir. It certainly wasn’t a brick or a hammer but it could have been a boulder or stone.’

‘I see.’ He reads a little more of the report then looks up. ‘The professor mentions soil and grit samples embedded in the skull. Do we have anything back from the lab to suggest where these might have come from?’

‘No, sir. But I believe them to be from Stonehenge.’

Gibson seems surprised. ‘Why?’

‘The solstice, sir. I think it’s reasonable to assume that Timberland hired the van to take Lock to see the sunrise there. They would have arrived in the early hours of the morning. Which is the time I think they encountered their attackers and the time Professor Hamilton cited as his TOD. It’s possible that Timberland tried to stop Lock being abducted and in the struggle he was killed.’

‘Many things are possible, Detective Inspector.’ Gibson looks towards his DCS. ‘Stewart?’

Willis weighs up Megan with his tiny brown eyes. ‘Kidnapping someone like Caitlyn Lock takes careful planning, long-term surveillance and expert execution. We’re talking about the Vice President’s daughter. The type of people involved in that kind of swoop and snatch operation come with full military training and automatic weapons. They don’t come empty handed and hit people with “something like a rock”.’

Gibson gives Megan a judgemental stare. ‘Anything else, DI Baker?’

She feels humiliated and intimidated. She knows she has one last chance to change their minds about her. ‘Yes, there is, sir. SOCOs found fingerprints on the door handle and a window of the Camper. They fit a local criminal.’ She glances directly at Willis. ‘A petty local criminal called Sean Grabb from Winterbourne Stoke. His home is not far from the henge.’

Gibson looks to Rowlands. ‘Can you have someone check this man Grabb out? If he is as the DI suggests, he may simply have come across the Camper by mistake.’ The commander looks back at Megan. ‘It’s possible your petty criminal was lifting tools from barns and sheds and he opened the Camper out of curiosity and got a nasty surprise.’

‘Many things are possible,’ says Rowlands, pointedly.

Megan sees an opening in the cross-fire. ‘Sir, I’d be very happy to track down Grabb.’

Gibson slides the pathologist’s report across to Tompkins. ‘I’m told you and DS Dockery have other pressing duties.’

Megan fights the urge to storm out. ‘Sir—’

‘You can go, Baker,’ the commander nods towards the door. ‘We’re grateful for your work.’

Megan doesn’t breathe until she’s outside. She walks into the ladies room, screams and slaps the wall. Those bastards are going to follow up on her leads.

81

Caitlyn senses something different about the hooded men moving her from her hell hole. They’re on edge. More careful with her than usual. Much slower. Less relaxed. Her heart lifts. It must be because they’ve decided to let her go. Then her hopes fall again. More likely they’re just moving her to another location. It’s something kidnappers do. More useless wisdom from Eric.

No sooner has her sight adjusted to the light than a blindfold is slipped over her eyes. She reaches up to her face but hands grab her wrists. They cuff her. Cold metal jaws bite her flesh.

They walk her down a corridor. The loss of sight makes her sway like she’s seasick. Unseen hands sail her round several corners and then halt her in a room where the temperature is at least ten degrees warmer.

‘Sit her down.’

The voice is male. Educated. English. Authoritative.

She is positioned on a chair. It feels good. Wood and leather, not cold stone.

‘Caitlyn.’ The voice is calm and measured. ‘We are going to ask you some questions. Easy questions. It is very important that you answer us honestly. Do you understand?’

She reminds herself of what Eric said. Build contact — any form of contact — with your captors. It can be the difference between life and death. ‘I understand.’

‘Good.’ The voice sounds pleased.

‘Can I have something to drink? I’m very thirsty.’

‘Certainly.’ He waves to one of the Helpers.

‘Not water,’ she pleads. ‘Anything but water. I’ve drunk enough to drown. Maybe coke or juice?’

‘We only have water.’

Caitlyn feels a glass being pressed into her hands. She raises it, tips it a little too much and spills some while she drinks. Someone lifts the tumbler from her hands.

‘What is your name?’

A different voice. Younger. Thinner. A slight accent. Not so educated.

‘Caitlyn Lock.’ She says it with pride.

‘How old are you?’

‘Twenty-two.’

‘Where were you born?’

‘Purchase, New York.’

‘What is your happiest memory about your father?’

The question throws her. ‘Say again?’

‘Your father, what is your happiest memory of him?’

It hurts even to think about it. There’s a long pause as Caitlyn decides what to say to them. ‘My dad used to read to me. Every bedtime he’d sit beneath the quilt with me and read until I fell asleep.’ She manages a pained laugh. ‘He made up stories about a fairy princess called Kay and her adventures, and then …’ She fights hard not to cry. ‘Then I’d fall asleep holding my daddy’s hand.’

‘And your mother, what is your happiest memory about her?’

She is hurting. The image of her father is clear in her head. She misses him. Aches to slip her hand in his and feel safe again. ‘I don’t recall much about my mother.’

‘Try.’

She takes a minute. She’s thought badly of her for so long it takes an effort to remember the better times. ‘I guess I remember her tying yellow bows in my hair for my first day at school. Cos I hated the blue uniform. I remember making waffles with her at grandma’s house. Almost every time we went round. And she used to sit me up on a cushion in her make-up room on the lot and have her own personal artist pretty me up.’

Now she thinks of it, she has lots of good memories of her mom. If only the woman hadn’t cheated on them, hadn’t left them.

‘Okay. That’s enough.’

The voice is the older man again.

She hears a click and a dying buzz, like something electric was just turned off. Footsteps cross the floor to her.

‘Why are you asking me these things?’

No one answers. Hands start to lift her from her seat.

‘Jake, what happened to Jake?’ There’s desperation in her voice. ‘Where is he? Can I talk to him?’

They’re turning her around, forcing her to walk.

‘Tell me! Tell me what happened to him.’ She digs her heels in, leans backwards, makes it hard for them to push her. Strong hands sweep her off the floor.

‘Motherfuckers!’ She wriggles and kicks but at least four of them are holding her, carrying her. ‘My father will kill you for this. My father’s men will get you and kill every fucking one of you.’

82

The private Citation jet crosses the Atlantic at a cruising speed of almost a thousand kilometres an hour. The flight is less than six hours — almost two quicker than a regular transatlantic charter.

Vice President Lock and his estranged wife Kylie buckle their seat belts as the jet zips into UK airspace. They’ve barely spoken throughout the journey and the grief-laden silence continues as an armour-plated Mercedes and detail of Secret Service agents whisk them away from Heathrow.

Six police outriders, sirens wailing, accompany them on the last leg of their journey. In Wiltshire, they’re held up by a straggling pilgrimage of cars and campers crawling through the country lanes towards Stonehenge. They pass them, corralled by the outriders, and finally arrive at police headquarters in Devizes.

Thom and Kylie Lock are shown into Hunt’s office and after a round of handshakes and hellos settle at the large conference table. Opposite them are Commander Barney Gibson and Home Office Minister Celia Ashbourne. The woman, a small but forceful northerner in her late-forties, starts the meeting.‘The Home Secretary sends his apologies. Unfortunately it was impossible for him to cut short his visit to Australia. I am here to assist you and to assure you that the British government and all its agencies are doing everything possible to find your daughter.’

‘We are making good progress,’ says Hunt. ‘The vehicle Caitlyn travelled in has been found and although burned out, it is being thoroughly analysed by forensics.’ His face saddens. ‘As I think you know, we also recovered the body of the young man she’d been travelling with.’

Kylie Lock reaches in her handbag for a tissue.

Hunt continues: ‘Did either of you have any knowledge at all of their relationship?’

She shakes her head.

‘It must be new,’ says Thom Lock. ‘Believe me, the team I had guarding Caitlyn would have reported any meaningful relationship.’ He senses his wife’s growing distress and takes her hand. The first sign of affection between them. ‘Have you had any contact from whoever has taken our daughter?’

‘None at all.’

‘Do your investigators have any intelligence on who her captors might be?’

‘We have the most senior detectives from the Met’s Specialist Crime Directorate working on that at the moment.’

‘MI6?’

‘The Special Intelligence Service has been informed,’ Ashbourne cuts in. ‘At the moment we don’t think it would be advantageous to involve them actively. Should a clear foreign or terrorist dimension develop then we’ll reconsider.’

The Vice President exhales. ‘Mrs Ashbourne, my ex-wife and I appreciate your efforts and the hard work of the police service. But — and I hope you don’t mind me saying this — we both would feel more comfortable if the operation were integrated with specific people I can send you. The FBI has noted specialisms in this field.’

Ashbourne smiles compassionately. ‘I understand how you feel Mr Vice President, I have a daughter the same age. Rest assured we are more than willing to cooperate fully in terms of exchanging information with the FBI and appropriately apprising them — and you — of any progress that’s being made. However, clear control of this investigation is of such paramount importance that operational integration really isn’t advisable.’

The Vice President drops his wife’s hand and leans forward. His eyes glint with steel forged in the white heat of campaign trails. ‘Minister, Chief Constable, I spoke with the President of the United States before I got on the plane. It was very late but he was concerned and kind enough to call me to express his concern as a personal friend and as the ultimate guardian of all American citizens. We can move forward here in one of two ways. You can accommodate my request and secure the deep gratitude of Kylie, myself and the President. I recommend that you do that. Or in a few hours the President will personally call your Prime Minister and express his grave concerns over how this investigation is being run. He will then hold a press conference on the White House lawn to share those concerns with the American people.’

Hunt nods understandingly. ‘Mr Vice President, we would welcome the assistance of the FBI. I will have my staff officer make arrangements with the Director General’s office.’

Kylie Lock speaks for the first time. She wants to ask only one question and the nervous pitch in her voice betrays how frightened she is of what the answer may be. ‘Please tell me, Mr Hunt, honestly, do you think my daughter is still alive?’

The Chief Constable answers without hesitation. ‘I am sure she is. I feel confident that we’ll soon find her.’

Kylie smiles, relieved.

Thom Lock’s eyes tell a different story. He would have said exactly the same if he’d been in the chief’s position. He knows the truth. It’s unlikely his daughter will get out of this alive.

83

Megan can’t face another minute at work. She shuts down her computer, grabs her stuff and slips out into the car park. The only consolation is that Sammy doesn’t now have to stay at Adam’s.

Lost in anger at being dropped from the big case, she almost misses Gideon Chase walking towards reception. His head is down and it’s clear he’s burdened with even darker thoughts than her own. ‘Gideon,’ she shouts.

He lifts his eyes, forces a weak smile and turns and heads towards her car. ‘Inspector, I was just coming to see you.’

Megan glances at her watch. ‘You should have called. I have to pick up my daughter. Is it something that can wait until the morning?’

He looks disappointed. ‘Of course, not a problem.’

But she can tell that he doesn’t mean it. ‘What’s wrong? Why did you drove out here to see me?’

He’s been rehearsing things in his mind for the past hour but now he’s really not sure where to begin. ‘You were right. I haven’t been telling you the truth about everything.’

‘What do you mean?’ For a second she can’t remember what it was that she had been accusing him of lying about.

‘I saw the man who broke into the house, my father’s house.’ He holds out his mobile. ‘I got a picture of him.’

She takes the phone from his hand. The photograph is not good. Shaky. Burned out a little by the cheap flash. Badly framed. Everything you shouldn’t do if you’re trying to take a good picture. But there’s enough to go on. A face to fit her profile.

Megan looks long and hard at the shot of the stocky man with rounded shoulders and short blond hair. He’s just as she imagined. White male, mid-thirties, somewhere around fourteen stone, quite broad, forty-two- to forty-four-inch chest.

‘I took it just before I shut the door on him,’ Gideon explains. ‘If you look closely, you can see the papers burning in his hand.’

She squints at the tiny screen and sees he’s right. The photo is better than she first thought. It’s evidential. ‘Why didn’t you want us to know about this?’

He shrugs. ‘It’s hard to explain. I guess I thought I could track him down before you did.’

‘Why would you want to do that?’

‘To ask him about my father. Find out what he’d been involved in. What it had all meant to him.’

She senses there’s more to it than just a need for personal retribution. ‘What do you mean, “what it had all meant to him”?’

Gideon freezes. He wants to tell her, have her help him make sense of things but he also doesn’t want to seem crazy. ‘My father kept diaries all of his life. Every year since he was eighteen.’

Megan doesn’t remember any reports mentioning diaries found at the house. ‘So?’

‘I think they could be important.’ He studies her, looking for a reaction. ‘Do you know anything about the stones and the Followers of the Sacreds?’

‘What stones?’

‘Stonehenge.’

She laughs. ‘Listen. I’m having a very bad day and I can’t work out riddles. What is it? What are you talking about?’

‘My father was a member of a secret organisation. It was …’ he corrects himself, ‘… it is called “the Followers of the Sacreds”.’

The DI gives him a cynical look. ‘So what? Your father had a secret club. He wouldn’t be the first. The police service is full of Freemasons and the like. I’m sorry, I really have got to go.’

‘It wasn’t like Freemasonry,’ Gideon snaps. ‘This group is dangerous. They’re involved in all kinds of things, rituals, maybe sacrifices.’

Megan scans him. He’s clearly exhausted. Depressed. Possibly even post-traumatically stressed. ‘Gideon, have you had any decent sleep recently?’

He shakes his head. ‘Not much.’

Now it all makes sense to her. His father’s death and the burglary and attack on him must be taking their toll. ‘Maybe it could be a good idea to see a doctor? They can give you something to help you rest. Get you through things for a few weeks.’

‘I don’t need drugs or advice, inspector. I need you to take me seriously. My father killed himself because of this group, the Followers of the Sacreds. I don’t know exactly why. But I think it all has something to do with me.’

She looks from her car to the front door of the station. Only one will take her home to her daughter.

‘This has to wait until tomorrow,’ she says. She holds up his phone. ‘I am keeping this until I can make a copy of the photograph that you showed me. I’ll give it back when I see you.’

Gideon nods disappointedly. ‘Please come to the house. I’ll show you the diaries. Then you’ll see things differently.’

Megan hesitates, her own personal safety is always at the back of her mind and Chase is showing signs of becoming unstable. ‘My DS and I can come around at ten in the morning. Is that all right?’

‘Ten is fine.’

They say goodnight and she walks to her car looking down at the mobile that he gave her and the face of the blond-haired man with a fistful of fire.