Unholy Rites (7 page)

“You can't do that! Dad will beat you black and blue!”

“How many years do you think I've been helping meself to his fags, and he's never noticed?”

“Mr. Clough said you're not to go out without Mum or Dad.”

“I figure I can get by with it this once,” Eric said. “If I get caught a second time, I'd be back in the clink. That's why I have to show you the hiding place, so next time you can do it by yourself. Every time I come I'll bring a note for you to leave where I show you. It will be in code, so don't even think of trying to read it. Take supplies if you can, but the important thing is to take the note.”

“Why, what's so important about it? I don't want to get into trouble.”

“You won't get into trouble. It's just a little game, that's all.”

“I can't,” Stephen said. Eric's hand tightened around Happy. Stephen hadn't dared go out by himself at night since he'd seen the shadowy figure on the footbridge. If that was the Grand Master, he was scared to death of him. But he couldn't tell Eric about that, Eric would call him a scaredy-cat, or worse. “Wait, it isn't that I don't want to, Mum won't even let me stay home by myself at night when she's working. I have to sit in the pub kitchen doing my homework.”

Eric shrugged. “Who says you have to go at night? I'm to come to Sunday dinner and be picked up at three. You can go as soon as I leave. There'll be lots of daylight left, and Mum won't mind if you slope off for a bit. The fresh air will do you good, put roses in your cheeks.” Eric reached out with his free hand and pinched Stephen's cheek, like his mum did sometimes, only with Eric it hurt.

“Stop it!” he screamed.

From downstairs his dad bellowed, “Shut your traps or I'll come sort you both out.”

Eric shoved Happy into his jacket pocket and headed down the stairs. “It's nothing, Dad, we're just going out for a bit, okay?”

“Eric, remember what Mr. Clough said,” his mum called. “What if he comes back early?”

Stephen stumbled after his brother, sick with worry. What if Happy fell out of Eric's pocket, or jumped out and ran away? Mrs. Rosson would keep him in at recess for a month. Maybe she wouldn't let him do the maypole dances for the well dressing.

Eric, already halfway out the door, yelled over his shoulder, “Don't worry, Mum, we'll be back in a tick.”

“Then put on your wellies,” their mum cried, but it was too late.

When they reached the pavement, Eric turned to him. “See, nothing to it. What you have to remember is that parents don't really want their kids around, they just pretend they do. If you just leave, you'll make everybody happy.” He patted his jacket pocket. “No pun intended, rat face.”

Stephen followed Eric around the station and down to the river, where they picked up the footpath used by the fishing club in season. The footpath was muddy, flooded in places by rain and melting snow, and Stephen wished he'd worn his wellies, it would take forever to clean his trainers. Not to mention the good trousers he'd worn to church and forgotten to change.

“Remember now, we're going west, towards Chee Tor,” Eric said. “As soon as we cross the footbridge, we'll double back along the other side of the river.”

All his life Stephen had been warned to stay away from the river in the spring, and now he understood why. The river raced along only inches below the footbridge. He kept close behind Eric so that he could grab hold if it suddenly washed away. When they were safely over Eric hurried ahead and then stopped. When Stephen caught up, Eric was leaning against a gnarled tree with an oddly broken limb.

“Watch for this tree,” he said. “The rocks are just ahead.” He set off again.

Stephen had to catch his breath. Something rustled in the bushes, and dark clouds blotted out the sun. What was he doing here? He wanted to go home. But Eric was somewhere ahead, and Eric had Happy. Stephen sped after him.

Something leaped out of the bushes in front of him. He screamed before he realized it was Eric, hooting with laughter.

“What's the matter, baby brother, it isn't even dark yet.”

“Where's Happy?”

Eric patted his jacket pocket. “Don't you worry, he's right here. C'mon, it's just ahead.”

Soon they came upon a rocky outcrop. “This is it,” Eric said.

“I don't see any cave,” Stephen said.

“Of course not, dummy. You don't think I'd take you where the Grand Master does his rituals. Only his acolyte is allowed to enter the cave, and that's me,” Eric said.

This was sounding more interesting. “What kind of rituals?”

“Oh, you know, like magic spells and stuff. Spells to protect him against his enemies. We light candles, and the light dances around the walls of the cave. Too scary for you, scaredy-cat. Now watch, and I'll show you what to do.” Eric took out a plastic bag and began emptying his pockets into it: the folded paper, some loose cigarettes, one of their mum's napkins wrapped around what looked to be roast beef and a bun. Stephen eyed the napkin hungrily, knowing better than to ask.

Happy squeaked and Eric asked, “Shall I put rat face in too?” Stephen grabbed at Eric's pocket. Eric batted his hand away. “Don't get yer knickers in a twist, I'm just joking.”

“Don't forget the plastic bag in case it rains,” Eric said, knotting it. He knelt down at the base of the tumbled rocks. “See this big rock with the black figure like a star on the side? That's a pentangle, the Grand Master's magic sign. There's a hollow between these rocks.” He slipped the plastic bag into the hollow. “See? That's all there is to it. It'll be our secret. You like a little adventure, don't you?”

Stephen took a long look at the marked rock. He did like adventure, but he didn't like trouble. Eric's adventures always got him into trouble. But walking by the river on a Sunday afternoon, leaving a little piece of paper, what harm could that do? He wouldn't have to meet the Grand Master. He let out a sigh, and with as much bravado as he could muster, said, “You're too right, I do.”

“What's on for today?”
Danutia asked Kevin when she arrived at Buxton Constabulary one Monday morning in March.

“Not much so far. A Burglary Dwelling over in Cressbrook. Couple came back from three weeks in Spain and discovered their place had been broken into, who knows when. A constable's taking a statement. Not much chance of nailing the perp. Another sheep mutilation, this one on a farm near Priestcliffe. I said I'd take a look.”

After a week of meetings with project managers and statisticians, Danutia was glad to be back to casework. Soon they were speeding east out of Buxton, the blustery wind pushing the River Wye along beside them, shaking the swelling buds on bare branches. She brought her attention back to the task at hand.

“You said ‘another' sheep. You've had other cases in the area?”

“Two since the first of the year. One in January near Tideswell. Then one near Mill-on-Wye in February, just after you came. You were meeting with the bigwigs in Ripley that week. The fishing club graze a few sheep on their land. A work party from Derbyshire Wildlife Trust were clearing litter from the river when they came across a pregnant ewe, half in, half out of the water. It had been dead a few days. In both cases, the necks had been broken, an eye had been removed with a sharp instrument, and a hind leg was missing.”

“I haven't dealt with a case like that in Canada,” Danutia said, “though a lot of horses were cut near Vancouver a couple of summers ago. A homeless man was suspected for a while, but there was also speculation that a satanic cult was cutting the horses to drain blood for their rituals. At the end of the summer the mutilations stopped, and no one was ever arrested. It all seems so senseless.”

“Satanic cults make more sense than
UFO
s, which is the most popular explanation over here,” Kevin said, veering off the A6, then doubling back under the highway onto a secondary road little wider than a sidewalk. Dry stone walls rimmed with frost ran along the road and cut the surrounding hillsides into patchwork squares, dotted with sheep like sequins on a skirt.

“What about rustling? That's a much bigger problem on the Canadian Prairies, where I grew up, than mutilation.”

“And here I'd pegged you for a city girl,” Kevin said, winking. “You're right. Our farmers lose millions of pounds worth of livestock and equipment every year. Even so, rural police stations are shut down and money diverted to the cities.”

“Most people don't understand what a small margin there is in farming. My dad lost ten head one year, so my mom went to work selling cosmetics to make sure we had Christmas presents.”

A Subaru station wagon was parked beside the road ahead. A man in a brown deerstalker hat and Wellington boots waited next to it, a border collie crouched at his feet. Kevin pulled in behind the Forester and they got out, the dog watching every move. Its splotched face reminded Danutia of Mia, loyal companion of the victim in her first homicide investigation, on sparsely populated Salt Spring Island. Had Mia adjusted to her new home with the victim's daughter in bustling Vancouver, or did she hunger for open spaces, herd strangers on city sidewalks?

Kevin introduced himself to the farmer, Peter Heathcote. “And this is Constable Dranchuk, from the
RCMP
in Canada,” he said. “She's here to study our rural crime reduction initiatives. I understand you've lost a sheep.”

“One of my best ewes,” Heathcote said. He turned to Danutia. “The breed probably doesn't mean much to you, but she's a Derbyshire Grit, Gritstone, that is, like the ones over there.” He gestured towards a stone pen open on two sides where maybe a dozen black and white ewes and twice as many lambs huddled out of the wind. Two eweless lambs at the edge bleated piteously. “Maisie's a little way down the field.”

“Let's take a look,” Kevin said.

Heathcote led them along the outside of the dry stone wall, the collie keeping them bunched together, until they approached a small gap where time or weather had dislodged the top few layers. “That's where the killer got in,” he said. “I noticed the gap when I moved the sheep here from the lambing shed yesterday. I was coming to mend it when I saw the buzzards circling. Zach was acting skittish-like, so I was watching out. Elsewise I would have trampled over his tracks.”

Kevin knelt to examine the prints, brushing away loose dirt and pebbles. “Man's size nine or ten, I'd wager. There's a lot of overlapping where he came and went. Not enough definition for a cast.”

“You'll have to clamber over to see Maisie, I'm afraid. The through-stone will give you a leg up.” A couple of feet away, Heathcote stepped onto a protruding stone, swung himself over, and dropped to the ground. Kevin and Danutia followed.

The body of the ewe lay some twenty feet away, concealed by a rocky outcrop. High above, buzzards circled. Danutia drew her jacket closer against a sudden gust of wind. Crows hopped away as they drew near. She stared down at the lifeless clump of wool. An empty eye socket, crawling with blue bottles, stared back at her. The eye had been removed with a sharp instrument, not pecked out. Strips of tissue had been cut from the jaw, the teats had been removed, and a hole had been cut in the belly near the foreleg. The foreleg was black and white, like its face. The hind leg was missing.

“Probably removed some internal organs,” Kevin said. “There's not much blood, so its neck is likely broken. We'll leave it to a vet to do a complete necropsy. Any others killed or wounded?”

The farmer shook his head. “No, but I'll likely lose the orphans. Grits are good mothers, but they'll not take kindly to strange sucklings at this age. Could be worse. Last year I lost twenty head to rustlers. Guess I should put some llamas in the field, like my neighbor. Mean bastards, llamas are.”

“Well, we'll see what we can do,” Kevin said as they headed to their vehicles. He backed to a pullout and turned around. “After that, I need a pint. What do you say to stopping in at the Reward?”

Danutia looked from Kevin to the dashboard clock and back again. “It's only 10:45. That's a little early, isn't it?”

“Pub opens at eleven,” Kevin said. “It will take us fifteen minutes to get there.”

“That wasn't what I meant,” Danutia said.

Kevin grinned, his teeth startlingly white in his sun-reddened face. “I know. Say, how was your trip to Manchester?”

Danutia was relieved that he'd avoided the subject of Heathcote's mutilated sheep. Before she could think about the case analytically, she needed time to let the gruesome details fade.

“I couldn't believe the destruction,” she said. The previous June, an
IRA
bomb had gone off in the city's busiest shopping district. A large department store and an insurance building had been totally destroyed, and many other buildings damaged.

“I felt like I'd landed in a Second World War movie about the bombing of Britain. I remember seeing images in the media when it happened, but then Manchester seemed as distant as the Middle East, and I'd more or less forgotten about it. It was a shock to see the blasted walls and twisted metal and buildings still being demolished. It seems incredible that there were no deaths and not many injuries.”

“The
IRA
weren't out to kill civilians,” Kevin said. “Someone phoned in a warning an hour before the bomb went off.”

Danutia held her breath as the car sailed around a sharp curve, then let out a sigh, part relief, part exasperation. “Arthur tried to explain Northern Ireland to me over drinks and dinner. The problems sound similar to the situation in Quebec in the seventies, only much worse.”

“Northern Ireland and the
IRA
. Heavy going for a date.” Kevin gave her a mischievous look.