Death Rites Read online

  “Anything else? Beard? Other tattoos? Clothes?”

  “No, sorry, I just remember ginger hair and fair skin with freckles.”

  14

  As Anderson drove them back, Crane was particularly quiet, but this time in a good way, not because he was in a bad mood, which was his usual emotional state. Crane was beginning to realise that for the first time in a long time his leg hadn’t hurt for a while. Thinking back, the last time had been when he had come out of the physiotherapy suite earlier that morning. He stretched his leg out as much as he could in the foot-well of the passenger side of Anderson’s Ford Focus, rubbing his hip as he did so. He was wearing a track suit and trainers at the insistence of his personal therapist, or rather his personal sadist, who wanted him to wear comfortable loose clothing and stable footwear for their sessions. The man was worse than any physical training instructor Crane had ever encountered in the army. A brutal task-master, who if he thought that Crane wasn’t trying hard enough, would deliberately let the session run over until he was satisfied that Crane was putting in as much effort as he could.

  The morning had been a welcome change of routine for Crane who had, for so long, missed the company of Anderson and the case had given them the chance to talk about something other than his accident. He wondered now why he had been so hesitant before, been so deliberately dismissive of Tina and Anderson’s efforts to get him interested in the case and realised that it was down to his fear. Fear that his body wouldn’t be up to anything more than mooching around the house and fear that his brain had become as slow and sluggish as his leg. He realised that by taking away the fear, he had taken away the anger that had been an integral part of him since the accident.

  But just because he’d had a good morning, did it mean he’d be able to take an active part in an investigation? Crane wasn’t a stupid man. He understood that at the moment he could no longer chase criminals, run after them, tackle and take them down. But maybe, just maybe there was a small role for him. One that would enable him to feel like a useful human being again.

  Just then a twinge of pain reminded Crane that the gremlins were still there, still burrowing away in his hip joint, but what he had managed to do was to think of something else for an hour or two, instead of focusing on his injury.

  After he got out of the car, he leaned back in through the open door and said, “Let me know if anything else happens with the case will you? If there are any new developments?”

  “Will do,” said Anderson with a broad grin on his face that Crane just about managed not to match. He didn’t want Anderson thinking that he was about to become Crane’s personal saviour. He’d never live it down and Anderson would become insufferable.

  Before driving off, Anderson opened the window and shouted, “Oh and if you have any thoughts about the case, give me a ring? Please?”

  Crane didn’t answer, just waved goodbye in reply as he walked up to his front door. Once in, Crane took off his coat and hung it in the small cloakroom where their winter coats, boots and all of Daniel’s outdoor stuff was stored. He noticed the police file that he’d meant to give back to Anderson, was still resting on the hall table. Waiting for him. Glad now that he hadn’t handed it back, Crane took it into the kitchen with him. He was fully aware that he’d not actually contributed anything towards the case this morning. It was as if he’d been struck dumb. Perhaps if he read through the file it would help him contribute to the conversation next time. If there was to be a next time.

  Deciding to make a cup of tea, he stood before the boiling kettle scratching at his beard. It wasn’t as short as it normally was. Crane hadn’t much bothered about shaving, it hadn’t been high on his list of priorities. His hair had grown longer as well and was now curling all over the place. If he didn’t keep it short it just sprouted curls which seemed to grow and multiply as fast as weeds. Perhaps he’d fit in a visit to the barbers when he was next in town.

  But for now he wanted to study the close up photographs of those strange marks on the girl’s arms.

  15

  To be honest, Bethany was a bit fed up of people looking at her, poking her and prodding her. She just wanted her mum and dad. But she couldn’t seem to tell anyone. Somehow her voice didn’t work anymore and she didn’t know why. It was just too hard to form words, too hard to wake her voice up, too hard to think about anything apart from wanting to go home.

  She didn’t know how she’d got to the hospital, didn’t know why she was there. There were vague memories playing around in the back of her head, like early morning mist. But just like mist when she tried to grab it in her hand, it just… disappeared. And she’d fall asleep and then start the whole thing over again when she woke up.

  They seemed to be calling her Hope. She’d no idea why, for her name was the one thing she did know. It was Bethany. But she couldn’t seem to tell them that either. There was a woman sat with her most of the time. At first Bethany had thought that the woman was there to stop her if she tried to run away from the hospital, just like she’d… she’d… oh bother, she’d lost it again. There had been a wisp of something, a half memory, a thought that perhaps she’d run away from somewhere else before. But no… there was nothing else.

  Victoria. That was the woman’s name. She brought in books to read out loud and had given her a mobile phone to play games on. She could have used it to phone her mum, Victoria said, which she would have done if she could only remember the number. Sometimes they’d watch the TV together, but never the news, only cartoons and stuff. Victoria didn’t seem to mind that she didn’t talk to her. But Bethany now trusted Victoria enough to nod her head in answer to a question, or gave her a little smile when she did something kind, like bringing in a chocolate bar or some sweets. But somehow she didn’t have any appetite. She seemed to have lost it, just as she’d lost the ability to speak, just like she’d lost the ability to remember anything.

  The whole thing was so scary that Bethany decided it was easier and less frightening to close her eyes and sleep.

  On the recommendation of the hospital, Anderson had arranged for a child psychologist to work with the girl who had been dubbed, Hope, instead of calling her ‘the child’ or ‘the girl’, all phrases which seemed to detach her emotionally from the team working on trying to find out who she was. And so Operation Hope was in full swing. Teams of officers, including cadets drafted in from the nearest police training college and members of the military police, were combing the area of Ash Ranges where she had been found. But it was a hopeless job really, as the ranges sprawled over several miles. Anderson wasn’t even sure what they expected to find, or were even looking for. He didn’t know if Hope had run away from a nearby house (not that there were many) or if someone had dumped her there (in which case she could have been held many miles away). So really their only expectation was to get some information from Hope herself.

  Anderson was waiting outside Hope’s room when a smartly dressed, slim woman walked towards him down the corridor. Her business suit was charcoal grey, teamed with a white blouse and her dark hair was severely drawn back from her face. Her black framed glasses gave her a studious air and all in all Anderson thought that her appearance was rather frightening.

  “DI Anderson?” she asked, extending her hand. “Dr McAllister.”

  “Thank you for coming,” Anderson said, but looking at the woman he wondered how the hell she was supposed to relate to Hope.

  “I’ve been given what background you have on the child,” she said, “and I’m going to use drawing therapy first, to try and get some information that you can work with.”

  “Thank you,” Anderson said. “How long does it usually take? I mean, how many sessions would you recommend?”

  “Well, it’s not an exact science, you know, but I’ll do what I can as quickly as I can. That’s about the best I can say, really. I’ll call in at least once a day, but I don’t want to rush her or frighten her.”

  Anderson thought that Dr McAllister would de
finitely seem rather frightening to Hope, as she came across as rather frosty and unnervingly professional and so he was unprepared for what she did next. She took off her jacket and pulled her blouse out of the waistband of her skirt. Then she grabbed the pins that were taming her hair, pulled them out and ran her fingers through the curls, allowing them to fall to her shoulders. She grabbed her large handbag which was bulging with her files and took out a sketch pad and a tin of crayons. She swapped her high heeled shoes for a flat pair that were folded up in her bag. Her glasses went into a case and joined the shoes in her bag.

  “Right,” she said. “That’s better, don’t you think?” and without waiting for a stunned Anderson to reply, she pushed open the door to Hope’s room.

  16

  Anderson couldn’t resist calling in on Crane on his way back to the police station, to tell him about the psychologist.

  “It was a real transformation,” he said sitting in Crane’s kitchen, enjoying a cup of tea and one of the muffins that Tina had bought especially for his visits. She knew all about Derek’s sweet tooth and even though his wife Jean had banned Tina from assisting with Anderson’s ever growing waistline, Tina always seemed to take pity on him and made sure there were little treats in the cupboard for him.

  “When Dr McAllister first arrived, she frightened me to death, and I was about to suggest that maybe drawing therapy wasn’t the way forward. But she turned out to be so different from my preconceptions. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “So how did Hope react to her?”

  “Well, so far Dr McAllister has only managed to get her to draw the doctor. They played a game of drawing each other, which brought a smile to Hope’s face and it was the first time I have seen her animated. And the first time she’s actually joined in an activity.”

  “Were you or the FLO involved?”

  “No, we stayed outside and watched through the window.

  “Um, interesting,” said Crane. “Has she left the drawing materials with Hope?”

  “No, she says that could do more harm than good. She thinks it’s best that she explores things with Hope while she draws, as the therapy needs to be done under controlled circumstances for now. That way Dr McAllister can tease out any memories without Hope getting too upset, or feeling pressured by someone asking her a lot of questions about what she’s drawn.”

  “Sounds fair enough. I guess that will help if anything she draws or tells you, is eventually used in evidence.”

  “That’s exactly what Dr McAllister said. If she’s in charge of the therapy then we can’t be accused of putting words into Hope’s mouth or giving her ideas to fit whatever theories we may come up with about her abduction and captivity.” Anderson took another bite of his muffin. “These really are good,” he said through a mouthful of crumbs. “Chocolate muffins with chocolate chips are my favourite.”

  “When is Dr McAllister going to see Hope next?” Crane asked in what he hoped was a casual tone as he cleared away their cups and plates.

  “Why’s that?” Derek asked as he brushed crumbs off his jacket, managing to smear chocolate on his tie in the process.

  “Oh, I just thought that maybe I could come as well. Just to observe you know.”

  “Oh sure,” laughed Anderson. “Just to observe. In that case, I’ll pick you up at 9am tomorrow morning. Unless you’ve got anything better to do, that is.”

  “Funnily enough, my calendar isn’t overflowing with social engagements, so 09:00 hours it is,” said Crane, feeling as excited as a school boy about to go on a visit to a theme park.

  As he closed the door on Anderson, his exuberance started to evaporate, as fear tried to poke holes into the thin fabric of his good mood. Turning away from the door he decided to log onto the internet. A search for lost memory as a result of trauma, would be a good place to start. And then he could look up drawing therapy. He looked at his watch and wondered how much work he’d be able to get done before Tina and Daniel came home.

  17

  Clay had arrived in Birmingham last evening and had spent the night camped out in his van, lying on blankets and zipped into a sleeping bag. Crawling out of the stuffy claustrophobic space, his feet touched the tarmac and he stood up, uncurling himself vertebrae by vertebrae as each clicked back into place. He groaned with pain. A nice hot bath or shower would do him right about now, but he knew he would have to get by with a wash at a local café. If only the boss hadn’t been so stingy, he could have stayed in a bed and breakfast or motel somewhere close by, but the bastard wouldn’t hear of it.

  “You need to be seen by as few people as possible,” he’d said. “I can’t have you staying somewhere. What if the police mount an operation in the area and some dippy landlady recognises you? No, the van it is,” he’d said firmly.

  Clay thought it an excuse for not spending money, but on the other hand he was too frightened of the boss to not do as he was told.

  The man he called the boss, had appeared in the area about three months ago, and started making tentative enquiries in the local alternative scene, for anyone who might be interested in setting up a new chapter. At first Clay had thought he’d meant motorbikes, but it soon became apparent that the boss had far more devilish things in mind. Clay was all for trying something new; anything that pierced the boredom of his life on the dole was welcome. He’d quickly become immersed in the new Satanic chapter and as he had a lot of time on his hands he was soon given the responsibility of sourcing the materials they needed for what the boss called, ‘the worship’. Clay didn’t give a damn who they worshipped, God or the Devil; it was all the same to him. What it had done was to give him a new purpose in life, a new focus, and it had also meant that he’d made a few quid on the side too.

  But all that didn’t improve his current mood and muttering and grumbling under his breath, he walked along the terraced streets to a local greasy spoon café. The lights were on and the windows were steamed up, which was alright by him. Walking inside was like entering a sauna and he smiled to himself. That was better. A good fry-up, some heat and a wash and he’d feel like a new man. Ready for anything. Or at least ready for any likely kid that happened to pass his way.

  Once full of the breakfast special, Clay made his way to the lock up garage he’d parked near last night. Pleased to see that no one had interfered with the padlocks that secured the garage door, he managed to unlock them with a bit of a struggle, having to wiggle the keys backwards and forwards before the clasps popped open. He’d have to give them a squirt of WD40 later. The up and over door swung open on the large springs, revealing the boss’ secret weapon. Climbing into the driver’s seat, Clay started the engine and slowly backed the van out of the garage, parking it at the kerbside. Once the lock-up was secured again, Clay began his preparations.

  It was a couple of hours later by the time he was ready and on his way. He’d gone over the contents, made sure he had his cones and sauces and that the dispensing machine was full of newly made ice-cream. He didn’t carry stocks of ice lollies for obvious reasons, just the soft ice cream that came out of his dispenser.

  He drove around for a while, until he found a likely spot. Parking by the side of a local park, he watched the children and their mothers playing, hearing them tell their offspring that if they behaved themselves they could have an ice cream from the van on the way home. He did quite a bit of trade, until the customers dawdled away and only one girl was left. She appeared to be on her own with no vigilant grown up and he put her age at about 10 years old, as she had that coltish look about her, all long arms and legs. She was a skinny little thing, dressed in an odd assortment of clothes that didn’t scream designer; they looked like they were more charity shop bargains.

  “Hey,” Clay called to her, “Want an ice cream?”

  “Can’t,” she replied sauntering over to the window. “I don’t have any money.”

  “Oh, that’s alright,” Clay said. “I’ll give you one for free if you can keep a secret and not tell
anyone.”

  A grin split her face and she nodded enthusiastically, pushing her long blond hair away from her eyes.

  While carefully selecting a cone and then filling it with ice cream, he asked, “What’s your name?”

  “Dawn.”

  “That’s a lovely name. Where do you live then, Dawn? How come no one’s with you?”

  “Oh, I’m staying at the local Dr Bernardo’s Children’s Home. Just temporary, like. Until my mum gets better, then I can go back home. I sort of escaped this afternoon,” she giggled. “But no one will notice, as long as I’m back in time for tea.”

  “Well,” Clay said. “I hope your mum gets better soon, Dawn. I’ll tell you what, how about some of my special sauce to go on the top of this,” and he showed her the large ice cream cone he’d made her.

  Wide eyed she nodded her agreement.

  “Would you like chocolate or strawberry?”

  She chose chocolate and Clay grinned as he poured it all over the top of the ice cream.

  18

  The following morning Crane was ready by 08:30 hours, even though Anderson wasn’t coming for another half an hour, astonishing Tina in the process. In fact he was ready so early that he was given the task of making sure Daniel ate his breakfast.

  Sipping the last of her coffee, as she propped herself up against the sink in the kitchen, Tina said, “So how are you feeling today?”

  “Pretty good, actually,” Crane said, realising that it was true. It had taken a while for him to get going, but a hot shower had helped and dressing in a suit had made him feel that he had some sort of worth. He knew it was only a temporary assignment. For now he was just tagging along with Derek. There was nothing official about it. For a moment Crane resented that, feeling that perhaps what Anderson was organising was nothing more than a pity party; but he quickly squashed such a stupid, self-obsessed, skewed view of life. He was determined to view the exercise as a positive, rather than a negative.