Dark Ritual (5 page)

“Will do, Bob. Mr. Peterson, I’m so sorry for your sad loss, Sandra was a lovely girl,” Peale said quietly. “The DCI will advise you further.”

“Thank you, sergeant.”

Six

As the cream curtain was drawn back slowly behind the large glass window for Alan Peterson, Fowler was taken aback for a second by the evocative image that the girl lying on the sheet covered table gave to those gazing in on her now. Her hair washed free of blood stains arranged softly around her delicate classic features resembled a shining silvery aureole and Fowler’s breath caught in his dry throat.

She reminded Fowler poignantly of a childhood picture he’d seen once of the Sleeping Beauty in a book. A fairytale favourite of his small sister Janice. As if a kiss from a Prince Charming would awaken Sandra and dispel all this as just an ugly nightmare. Only it wasn’t. It was reality. And someone had taken her life away with a savage act of violence and murder which the bruises plainly revealed.

He heard the indrawn breath escape from the tall man standing beside him. Felt him sway slightly, and then recover again. Peterson cleared his throat noisily before speaking out.

“Yes — this is — my daughter, Sandra. I only wish I could say it’s not. That it’s been a horrible mistake. And when will we be able to have our daughter? Can I make the funeral arrangements soon? My wife is most anxious about this.”

“As soon as we can release her. But there has to be an inquest first. I would like to speak to you later, sir. There are questions we must ask you, Mr. Peterson. I’m sure you understand it will enable us to catch your daughter’s killer all the quicker.”

The anxious look in Peterson’s eyes queried this. “So soon, Chief Inspector?”

“I’m afraid so. This is a formality that we have to go through with all who are concerned, sir. We’re checking up on everyone’s movements in the village for last night, Mr. Peterson. You understand, sir.”

There was a sound of indrawn breath then Peterson nodded. His deep set grey eyes resembled pebbles, still and cold with all emotion drained from them. “Of course, Chief Inspector. It is a homicide that has to be dealt with and the sooner the better. But now I must go back to my wife. Rosemary needs me badly.”

“ We would like to speak to her too, sir. It would help us to know if your daughter returned home at all on Sunday night.”

This produced some further agitation on his face and in his manner. “Not yet! Surely not. You can’t possibly put her through anything so soon. I won’t have her upset. She is severely distressed. You can have our doctor’s word on that. We have just lost our very dear daughter. She cannot face any questions at present.”

“That’s understandable. Sorry, but we have to ask questions, Mr. Peterson. We would like to know the movements of everyone here and of Sandra especially, sir. We have to know where she was, and everyone she was with on Sunday evening and night?”

Peterson thought carefully for a moment. “I hope that she will be able to speak with you shortly. Tomorrow perhaps. Will that do?”

“Very well, thank you, Mr. Peterson.”

“I would have thought that Sandra’s friend, Martin Robbins, would have been far more useful to you.”

“We shall be questioning him. If you will convey our solicitations to Mrs. Peterson, please.”

Back in the incident room plain clothes officers were working on records, and uniforms kept busy house to house checking up on and clearing those tourists who were in the village on short visits to see the crop circle that weekend.

The contents of Sandra’s leather shoulder bag, which they found in a water filled ditch near the corn field had been examined thoroughly now by Forensics. And along with an expensive camera, they’d found some tiny colourful feathers caught in the bag lining which were undergoing further examination along with those that Peale handed over when he came back. Sandra’s plastics and twenty pounds in notes and cash were left in the purse inside. Robbery was not the motive.

“Told you Bob, Robbins has really got something to answer for,” Peale said to Fowler as he took a look at the camera. Peale, a photography buff, whistled when he picked it up and examined it carefully with gloved hands. “Phew! This must have cost big bucks. Went with her job I suppose. What had she taken with it recently? The film’s gone.”

There were fingerprints left on it though, which in itself was interesting. More than one person had handled it recently. There were at least three other sets of fingerprints on it according to Forensics.

“Perhaps, she was getting the film developed. Better check where she could have taken it. Perhaps it was summer snaps or maybe — maybe she was using it to blackmail someone.”

It seemed possible. Enquiries had to be made about this. Had someone other than Sandra taken the film? How and where had she put it to use?

“We’ll follow that up, Peale. The film could have been removed by someone. It could have something on it that someone didn’t want seen. Maybe that was the reason for her murder? Maybe she discovered something that was dangerous for her to know.

“She was working on something down here. So perhaps Martin Robbins can tell us. He could be the only person here who knew why she was really here.”

Peale grimaced, scratched his nose and smiled. “You could be right. It wasn’t for money that’s for sure.”

Peale was feeling pretty cock a hoop. The case was practically in the bag he reckoned with these other small green and aqua coloured feathers found caught in the bag lining.

Although his sergeant seemed determined and bloody minded enough to pin it on Martin Robbins, Fowler was not so sure. But truth will out, he thought, and if the young man was innocent then he would have to prove it. He would have the chance to have his say when he came in shortly.

Seven

Check-ups on the tourists currently staying in the village was an ongoing exercise in the incident room now. So many had been present in Lower Milton that weekend, and they were a pretty mixed bunch. Some came on day coaches and some stayed on in any lodgings possible. They were eager to offer help, and any clues that could help the police to find out about the crime. They interviewed all those that stayed over night in bed and breakfasts and they all had alibis, including those that had stayed at the Fox and Goose and the Red Lion down the road.

The young, newly fledged PC Boyle called on the two American crop circle enthusiasts staying in the B&B on the Maddocks’ farm; he found them keen to help, and the case then took on another quite unexpected turn. Boyle put his head through the open office door to remark casually to Peale who was conferring with Fowler. “Sarge, one of those Americans staying on the Maddocks’ Farm, a Mr. Hamilton, asked if we’d checked up on the pagan sacrificial ceremonies they used to practice round here. Do we know anything about them? He seemed eager to tell me about them. Made a study of them he said.”

Fowler, taking a file from Peale, looked up and said, “What’s that, Boyle? Pagan ceremonies? Run that past us again.”

“Er — well, yes, sir. According to Mr. Hamilton they were part of Lower Milton’s pagan history. Said he’d read a lot about it.” Boyle grinned. “And he asked if we knew about the two other deaths similar to Sandra Peterson’s that occurred here during the early nineteenth century. He gave me this printout to show you, sir.”

Fowler groaned and leant across the desk. “Give it here. Have you heard about this, Peale?” They looked at the paper together. It was an article on pagan worship and crop circles evidently taken from a magazine.

“I haven’t, Bob.”

“So tell us more, Boyle?”

“They seemed dead keen on coming in to have a word with you, sir. They’re experts on the crop circles. That’s what they came over here for according to Mr. Hamilton.”

Fowler hid his amusement as Boyle continued seriously, “I don’t think they know that much about Sandra Peterson’s death. It’s how she was killed that interests them. Couldn’t stop them talking about it. Rather gruesome I thought, sir,” he added seriously.

They listened intently to the young constable. The crime had apparently made the Americans’ visit to Lower Milton even more interesting. They had paid the village a visit the year before apparently and Hamilton had researched the local history.

“Are they like the rest of these Star Trekkers and planetary activists?”

Boyle grinned widely. “Crop circle enthusiasts, sir. They’re potty about them. Takes pictures of them. Mr. Cole Hamilton did most of the talking. He writes about them. The other one is his partner, Mr. Charlie Stein. They’re a couple,” he explained quickly, his face colouring up. “Mr. Hamilton has especially done a lot of mugging up on these pagan fertility rites in the British Isles. He’s writing a book on it.”

Fowler groaned inwardly. “Interesting, but is this offering us any pointers to Sandra Peterson’s death, Boyle? If not...”

“Mr. Hamilton thinks so. He mentioned lots of research he’s done already on Jack in the Green, Beltane, Druids and the Celts pagan rites and all sorts of weird things like that. And Sandra Peterson’s death has only served to increase his interest. He believes it was committed by someone interested in the pagan religions.”

Oh
my
God
, Fowler thought meeting Peale’s eyes.
Who
suggested
going
into
this
gobbledygook?
He leant his leather-patched elbows heavily on the table and for a moment rubbed his hand over his face thoughtfully and groaned. This was not going to go away though. His instincts had been right from the beginning. This investigation promised to be a damn sight harder than it had seemed at first. Peale had realized this already and wasn’t happy at all with these new revelations.

Boyle was still speaking, embellishing the facts with relish it seemed to Fowler while he held the floor. “And here especially, sir. This Yank’s read everything pertinent to pagan ceremonial celebrated by the Druids and lots more. That’s when he mentioned the two other deaths.

“They were believed to be ritual sacrificial killings to make the harvest flourish for the following years,” Boyle continued seriously now that he’d got the attention of Fowler and Peale and it seemed that everyone else in the incident room was listening.

“Pagan ceremonies! Is this a load of baloney or what?” Fowler clicked his fingers. “Peale are you sure you haven’t heard of anything like this before? Anything at all? You usually have plenty to say. You must know something about your local history here or bloody well should do, man. Where have you been living for the past thirty odd years?”

Peale for the moment was lost for words. He was inwardly cursing Boyle for bringing all this bloody rubbish out into the open. It was going to bugger up this case for sure.

Fowler sighed heavily with weariness and exasperation as he stretched his back in the Vicar’s hard leather desk chair, his hands held behind his neck and waited patiently for Peale to speak.

Peale shrugged and made a face behind Fowler’s back at DC Coombe through the open door. “Can’t say that I have. I don’t really know much about this village. I come from Upper Milton and my family moved there from Gloucester when I was ten. Sorry.”

He fixed young Boyle with a stony stare.

Fowler cursed under his breath. “Well, you’d better make it your business from now on, Peale. As we all should. We have to look into it. And fast. We could be missing something vital here. We shall have to ask PC Cornwell, he could know something about it.”

Fowler was annoyed. He’d felt from the beginning that they were missing something vital here. He wished he’d got his old pal, Steve, there. Peale was new shoes, newly promoted and unpracticed, and he wasn’t cooperating that easily. He clicked his fingers again.

“Right, Boyle, go see those American tourists again, pronto. Are they intending to leave here soon, do you know? If they are on the move warn them that they have to speak to us first.”

Boyle shook his head. “They said they want to take more films. They’re staying the week out at least, sir,” he added eagerly, ignoring Peale’s look of annoyance.

“Good. Ask them to come in to speak to us now, please.”

Boyle left the incident room filled with the importance of his quest.

Eight

Fowler slammed his hands down hard on the table. “Peale! We’ve got to stamp on this right away before it runs away from us. Or it will blaze round the place like a bush fire. You know that Boyle’s auntie is our venerable Mrs. Daisy Doughty.”

Peale groaned and nodded. “Sounds like a lot of crap, Bob. But I bet she’s knows something about it.”

“And if Boyle mentions it to her, well you can guess the rest. The media will be onto it. It’s just the kind of trash they would welcome with open arms.” Fowler ran his fingers through his short hair and groaned again. “It could be rubbish. But have we got us a raving loony here. Did you catch any of this from Boyle, Coombe? What’s your thoughts on it?” he said as DC Coombe came in with mugs of coffee.

She giggled but smothered it quickly and said, “If it’s someone looking for sacrificial victims then they might choose a young man to practice on next time. There’s plenty to choose from on Kilernee Hill... But perhaps it has to be someone local. What do you think, Sarge?”

Fowler frowned. “Same as I do, it’s rubbish, thank you, Coombe.”

But it obviously filled everyone’s mind and it showed on their faces as Fowler, his mug of coffee in hand, came into the incident room to address them.

“Any views on this new development folks? Could there be more than one person involved here? Has anyone heard anything at all about this pagan stuff?” He studied their blank faces and shrugged. “Well just the same, we’ve got to give this some serious thought. Is there any truth in what these Americans said to Boyle? Do you think it’s possible, Peale?”

For once Peale had no ready answer. He ran a forefinger down his long nose, rubbed it thoughtfully, and shook his head. “Can’t say, Bob. I wasn’t one for reading up local history as a kid. Sorry.”

Fowler glanced at his watch again, said abruptly, “Seven-twenty. Right. If you can’t bloody well help me. I’ll find someone who can.”

He quickly dialled a number on his mobile phone. “Hi, sorry to trouble you again so late.”

“Anything the matter?”

“Can I see you pronto?”

“Of course. Come on over.”

Peale catching this much, frowned and glanced over at Gerry Coombe, who shrugged, and teased him with a smile and flirty blue eyes.

“Where can I reach you, Bob?”

Fowler sighed. “I’m calling on Mrs. Trent. I hope that
she
can fill me on what we should know about Lower Milton’s pagan history. Peale, you can deal with Robbins when he comes. Ah, yes — here he is with his auntie. She will help you,” he said as Martin Robbins and Mrs. Robbins came in through the door at that moment.

Peale grimaced. “If she doesn’t mean to hinder me, Bob.”

“Chief Inspector Fowler,” he said greeting them with a smile. “Good evening, Mrs. Robbins, Mr. Robbins. Thank you for coming. Sorry it’s late. I hope that we won’t keep you long. I would like you to answer some questions if you will, Mr. Robbins please. I understand that you were Sandra Peterson’s best friend. You’ve already met DS Peale. So I shall leave you in his capable hands.”

Peale frowned. He was having his doubts already about Robbins, approaching him now with a troubled face that revealed his loss so clearly. Could he have chosen to make his friend Sandra Peterson a pagan fertility sacrifice?