The Repenting Serpent Read online

  His blood ran cold. Never in a million years had he expected this phone call, and he’d never rehearsed what he would say if he ever spoke to her again. ‘Lacey, I …’

  ‘Shhh,’ Lacey said. ‘Take a moment to calm yourself. Remember where your temper got us last time? You were quite lucky with the way that little episode ended.’

  ‘Lucky,’ Jake said, ‘lucky! You terrorised—’

  ‘You, Sheila and that beautiful boy of yours are only alive because of me. So, a little gratitude would be nice.’

  ‘You are fucking unbelievable!’

  ‘One last time, Jake, I’m warning you. I know you are frustrated. I know life has you all tied up in knots these days. But I have something you want, something you need.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘I know things about Jessica’s killer. I know things that you need to know. Listen to me now Jake, and I will tell you things that will mend your wings so you can fly all over again…’

  Jake listened.

  ‘Thank you for coming again, Mr Utter,’ Yorke said.

  Utter spooned soup into his mouth from a plastic tub. ‘No problem, as long as you don’t mind me eating while we talk. I had to leave my dinner at home.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  Utter had been made privy to all the details of the case so far and had signed the confidence agreement. It was, therefore, quick and easy to fill him in on the events of the evening regarding Gillian Arnold.

  ‘He called himself a Tlenamac?’ Yorke said.

  ‘A Tlenamacac,’ Utter said after swallowing. ‘That means he considers himself a fire priest for Tezcatlipoca.’

  ‘The deity on the picture that we found at Preston’s?’

  ‘Yes. The deity that brings about change through conflict and disharmony. There is also something else that is very interesting in what you just told me. He referred to her as a slave, and himself too. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes,’ Yorke said, checking his notes.

  ‘Well, Tezcatlipoca has an epithet – He whose slaves we are, we are all slaves.’

  Yorke paused to allow the connections to form in his mind. He wanted it to feel like a jigsaw, coming together with a sense of accomplishment, rather than how it really felt: a spider web being weaved and threaded into a whole that would only entangle and trap. ‘So, he is choosing his victims based on whether they are slaves or not? What does that mean?’

  Utter shrugged. ‘You said that he told Gillian that Jessica was also slave to her sadness? What could Jessica have been sad about?’

  ‘Her divorce? Her sick mother, perhaps?’

  Utter nodded to show his enthusiasm over the direction of the conversation. ‘And Robert Preston could have been sad because of his fetish – one that was destroying his own life?’

  ‘Possibly – although he could have just been murdered because he was a witness?’ Yorke sighed. ‘Are we not reaching here? I mean, aren’t we all sad about one thing or another?’

  ‘True.’

  ‘Could he just be a cold-hearted killer?’ Yorke said, sitting back in his chair.

  Utter leaned back in his chair too. ‘That’s where I disagree with you,’

  Yorke raised his eyebrows. ‘I showed you the pictures; does murder get any more cold-hearted?’

  ‘I’m not saying what he’s done is acceptable, but you must understand that he won’t see this as killing.’

  Yorke leaned forward again.

  ‘Remember, detective, these gods created the world and mankind through their own sacrifices. Lord Tezcatlipoca, for example, sacrificed his foot to a monster so the world could be made.’

  ‘You see, that’s where I start to struggle … a monster?’

  ‘The Aztecs sacrificed other Mesoamericans to pay this debt. The potent energies contained in the hearts and souls empowered the deities and if you nourish the gods, they would nourish the earth in return. Without divine sacrifice, they believed the earth would end.’

  ‘You sound like you believe this, too.’ Yorke said.

  Utter didn’t respond.

  Yorke’s eyes widened. ‘Really?’

  ‘We discussed this earlier in the investigation. We were clear that my beliefs were irrelevant.’

  ‘Yes, but still … really? You believe this?’

  ‘Yes, I do. Think about droughts, famine and extreme weather. Lack of sacrifice is destroying us.’

  Yorke stood up and walked over to the window. He took a deep breath and stared out at the intensifying snowfall. He had to make this right with himself. He needed Utter; now was not the time for conflict with the man who had some insight into this whole situation.

  Behind him, Utter said, ‘But let me make myself clear, Detective, I don’t believe in human sacrifice. Auto-sacrifice should suffice.’

  Yorke turned. ‘What he does to his ears? And do you …?’

  Utter held up a scarred thumb and nodded.

  Yorke bit back his impulse to comment. He took his seat again.

  ‘Don’t be shocked, and don’t be hostile. I am not who you think I am right now. Pagans, such as myself, are always on the receiving end. It’s not all about human sacrifice, and orgies. Unfortunately!’

  He smiled at his own sarcasm; Yorke did not smile back.

  ‘You can’t argue that modern, more popular, religions don’t have chequered histories either. Most people who practise any form of religion are Reconstructionists. We take a pre-Christian religion and we breathe new life into it. This is what I do with a religion that began in Mesoamerica and was developed through the Toltecs and the Aztecs.’

  ‘But still,’ Yorke said, unable to hold back any longer. ‘The scale of sacrifice. It was worse than Hitler in Auschwitz! Do we really want to be breathing life back into that religion?’

  ‘New life. And all of my emphasis is on new. The religion did not diminish because people stopped believing and the symbols and rituals were invalid; it diminished because it was violently suppressed! So, we reconstruct with modern laws and morality in mind. No one I associate with believes that sacrificing life is necessary – human or animal. I’m a vegetarian and proud pet lover. No living thing has anything to fear from me.’

  ‘So, just cactus thorns?’

  ‘Yes, auto sacrifice only.’

  ‘One thing I’ve learned then about this murderer is that he is not a Reconstructionist.’

  ‘Yes, detective, he definitely wants to keep things exactly how they were.’

  Yorke joined Topham in the incident room where he was poised over a printed sketch of Joe Shaw.

  With the forensic artist, Gillian had provided a portrait of a pale and long-haired man with a gaunt aquiline face. His eyes were brown and sunken.

  ‘I suppose that if I was to imagine a blood-thirsty Aztec Priest, this wouldn’t be far off the mark?’ Topham said.

  Yorke said, ‘Distinctive, to say the least. Let’s get this out to the press first thing; we could easily get a hit.’

  ‘Let me contact Price. It’s past midnight and you need some sleep, sir.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘No, sir, you’re not. And unless you want me to shock you with my compact mirror – which you know, due to my pretty boy nature, I do carry around in my top pocket – you should heed my advice. Besides, you’ll do nobody any favours if you deprive yourself much longer and start to look like this man in the picture.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, Mark, it might give me the edge in interrogations.’

  ‘Yes, if you don’t scare them to death first.’

  ‘Where’s Emma?’

  ‘She had to rush home. Annabelle is sick apparently.’

  Yorke’s goddaughter. ‘She okay?’

  ‘Just a heavy cold, I think. She told me to tell you not to worry. She knows you well. I’ll tidy up here, ready for tomorrow’s briefing. I’ll contact Price to ensure that this is in the press first thing. Gillian has opted for the hospital overnight, so I’ll confirm
an officer will be there throughout the night; I’ll also send some officers to relieve Tyler and Willows for a few hours outside Jake’s.’

  ‘We are going to get stretched thin at this rate.’

  ‘Precisely why we all need some beauty sleep; I got mine last night - so please, sir?’

  ‘Okay, okay … but if you stumble on anything tonight, and I mean anything, you call me. We got lucky tonight with Gillian. He’ll be back, and we might not be so lucky again.’

  ‘You have my word, sir.’

  ‘I know I do, Mark. You’ve always been one of the best.’

  8

  THE TYRES ON Jake’s car crunched over ice and snow until he was buried deep in the industrial estate. It was a cheap assortment of small garages, most of them either derelict or vacant. There were only two occupied; a tyre place and another hired by someone who sold motorcycle parts. Both of them were closed. Why wouldn’t they be? It was past midnight.

  He killed his engine and lights and chewed hard on peppermint gum. The flavour was gone. He reached for the door handle and noticed that his hands were shaking - the pro-plus he’d downed before leaving, perhaps?

  Or the realisation that what he was doing right now, coming to meet Lacey Ray, was sheer madness.

  Outside, he pulled his ski jacket tight. It did little to fend off the cold.

  The choice she had presented was simple.

  She had Billy Shine’s belongings, including a laptop; and she had a recording of his confession linking him to Jessica’s murder. She had answers.

  ‘All wrapped up like a gift with a nice red bow,’ she had said.

  But the cost? He had to meet her. Alone. At this address. At the garage painted blue with the door ajar. If he didn’t come, she would burn everything. If he told anyone else, she would burn everything.

  She’d made a compelling case. ‘With this, you’ll catch Jessica’s killer, which I’m in full support of. Without it, you’ll carry on chasing your tails in the wind, and then the next dead body is on you Jake. All on you.’

  Compelling.

  However, this didn’t make his actions any less stupid.

  ‘You want me to meet a killer, in a deserted garage, at one in the morning?’ he’d said.

  ‘Yes, I do. Exciting, isn’t it?’

  ‘For a crazy person.’

  ‘Agreed, but remember this. If I wanted you dead, Jakey, do you not think I would have achieved that goal already?’

  ‘So, if you don’t want me dead, then why not just deliver the evidence to the station?’

  ‘Come on now, where would be the fun in that?’

  He stood at the open door to the garage and slipped his hand inside his jacket. The kitchen knife was still there. Yes, he knew this could cost him everything. His job, his freedom, even his life. But evidence that could put a stop to Jessica’s murderer? And not just any murderer, but the most brutal, vicious individual that he’d ever come across?

  The irony that he would be confronting the second most brutal, vicious individual that he’d ever come across in his career wasn’t lost on him. Hence, the knife. He would bring Lacey down tonight – one way or another. Two birds with one stone.

  Several steps into the deserted garage, he took a deep, heavy breath of air, scented with oil. It was dark, so he reached around the walls beside the entrance until he was able to locate a switch that threw the old garage into life.

  But life was not the appropriate word. The place was deserted. Completely. The floor was littered with debris from old vehicles, and the old plaster walls were decaying and crumbling.

  In the centre of the empty garage was a chair.

  Jake approached the chair, keeping his hand inside his jacket, ready to pull the only weapon available to him when he eventually sighted her. As he neared the chair, he heard a mobile phone ring. It certainly wasn’t his. The ringing was coming from the chair.

  He picked up an old phone from the chair and answered. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Take your hand out of your jacket, Jake.’

  Jake turned full circle, looking for her. Nothing. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Maybe I’m here watching? Maybe I just know you all too well? Whatever you have in your pocket, it lands on the floor now or I disappear.’

  ‘You can’t seriously expect—’

  ‘Or I am going to disappear.’

  Jake threw the kitchen knife on the floor. ‘Happy?’

  ‘Always. Now sit on the chair.’

  Jake obeyed with gritted teeth. ‘Can we just get on—’

  ‘Reach under the chair.’

  Jake reached under the chair and pulled out two sets of handcuffs. He cursed under his breath.

  ‘Sorry, Jake?’

  ‘Lacey, this is ridiculous—’

  ‘No, it’s security. For me. First, you will handcuff your ankles together; then, you will handcuff your hands behind your back.’

  ‘So you can cut my fucking fingers off, like you do with all of your other stupid victims?’

  ‘Yes, you’re right, they were stupid. You, Jake, claim to be anything but. So, if that is indeed the case, the sensible move would be to follow the instructions.’

  Shit, thought Jake, what do I do?

  There was only one option if he wanted the information. He put the phone on the floor and put the handcuffs on his ankles first but left one latch loose. He picked up the phone. ‘Done.’

  ‘Fasten the handcuffs Jake.’

  ‘I have done.’

  ‘Goodbye Jake, I hope you manage to live with how close you came to putting your hand on the evidence.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake!’ He put the phone down and snapped the handcuffs shut.

  ‘Now, put your hands behind your back, and I want you to wrap the cuffs around the spindles.’

  ‘That sounds awkward.’

  ‘Very, but we have time, and I won’t be coming out until I can see it is done.’

  Jake put the phone down on the floor and clamped his left wrist. Then, behind his back, he weaved the second cuff around the spindle and, with his cuffed left hand, managed to slam the cuff home on his right wrist.

  He was fucked now.

  He knew it and she most certainly knew it.

  He had to trust her.

  God, for my son, for my wife, Sheila, for whoever this killer had targeted next, please let this work. Please make this psycho do the right thing.

  He sensed Lacey behind him, felt her hands on his shoulders and then felt her fingers running down his chest.

  She withdrew her hands, circled the chair and stood in front of him. ‘I’ve missed you.’

  She lifted her skirt slightly, so she was able to lift her left leg over him, and straddled him.

  ‘Get off me!’

  Lacey stroked his face. ‘I’ve missed you.’

  ‘I will stand up and throw you to the ground.’

  ‘Shhh … you won’t because then you won’t get what you came for.’

  ‘What do you want from me Lacey?’

  ‘What I came for.’ She leaned in for a kiss.

  Topham put his head down on the table, and was on the verge of sleep, when his phone rang. It was DS Ryan Simmonds. Simmonds had been tasked with online forums and potential cults.

  ‘Ryan?’

  ‘Sir, I think I have something important.’

  ‘Go on them,’ Topham rubbed his weary eyes.

  ‘WindScapes, a portal for the pagan community of Wiltshire.’

  Topham leaned over and turned his computer on. He waited until he got the Google bar and then he summoned the appropriate page.

  The home page for WindScapes showed a woman standing in front of a leafy tree, wearing a black cape and holding out her palms. Topham was pleased that the photographer had opted for daylight; it made the image look far less satanic.

  ‘Okay,’ Topham said. ‘A dating agency for religious nuts?’

  Simmonds laughed. ‘It’s one of many we’ve been looking at. Many Pagan religions ar
e covered here including Mesoamerican ones.’

  ‘I’m listening,’ Topham said.

  ‘Well, we contacted them earlier today. Unsurprisingly, the lady who answered, Sandra Ross, was abrasive and defensive. I told her, without providing too much detail, that we suspected some kind of connection to Aztec theology in the recent murders in Wiltshire. I asked her if there had been any peculiar behaviour in the forum in the last couple of years.’

  Topham snorted. ‘Peculiar behaviour? Looking at this forum, I’m sure that request would keep her very busy.’

  ‘Firstly, she said she would speak to forum monitors, but then launched into a tirade about how their forums are safe and comply with modern day laws and morality, issuing bans when necessary.’

  ‘So, you asked for the list of banned users?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good work, and?’

  ‘It gets better. She phoned me back fifteen minutes ago—’

  ‘What? At one in the morning! You’ve certainly got them rattled!’

  ‘Sir, you need a pen.’

  ‘Got one.’

  ‘Someone by the name of Tezcacoatl was kicked off the forum earlier this year.’ Simmonds spelled the strange name. ‘In these email exchanges with another user, he describes how he wishes to initiate another Aztec empire and call it the Second Age.’

  Topham snorted again. ‘Realism is not one of his strong points then?’

  ‘It gets better. He thinks of himself as a priest, but he wants to gain some kind of promotion to a …’ he paused, obviously to look at his notes, ‘a High Priest. And then, from that, another ascension to something called a Tlatoani.’ Again, Simmonds had to spell that out. ‘Which means – ruler of the Second Age.’

  ‘A little ambition never hurt anyone, but the world’s had enough of tyrants.’

  ‘You should see the stuff they’ve sent through on email, sir. They have all of his posts and emails. He has plans for temples, new schools, wars. Wow, this guy could write an interesting book.’

  ‘Hmmm, wouldn’t be my cup of tea, but do we think that this is our guy? There are a lot of crackpots out there. We need more. Does he mention human sacrifice?’