Jess Castle and the Eyeballs of Death Read online

  One or two new faces might render Castle Kidbury bearable. Jess needed enough time here to sort out the mess she’d made of Cambridge. Not, she scowled, because her father demanded it – never that! – but because the shame had arrived and Jess wasn’t loving it one bit.

  A waft of bacon lured her away from the window of Dickinson’s Books. Later, she thought. Culture could wait. She pushed at the door of The Spinning Jenny.

  Bacon and eggs ordered, she sat by the window.

  ‘Hello again!’ Rupert made it from door to Jess’s table in one manoeuvre. ‘Checking out the new joints in town?’

  ‘Just the new bacon and egg joints.’ Jess pushed her hair into her face, adjusting to the presence of her brunch companion.

  ‘Excellent plan.’ Rupert turned to the short woman slicing cake behind the counter. ‘A latte, thanks Meera.’

  ‘To go?’ asked Meera. An Indian curl to her words.

  ‘To stay.’ He turned to Jess. ‘I hope.’

  Jess nodded. It was a very nonchalant nod.

  Rupert sat, dwarfing the dainty chair, navy coat puddling on the tiled floor. ‘Have you ladies met? Meera, this is Jessica. Meera and Moyra took over this place a couple of years ago.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Meera. I’m Jess, as opposed to Jessica.’

  ‘I’ve heard about you, actually.’ Meera sauntered over with Rupert’s drink.

  ‘Really?’ Jess did her damnedest to look as if that didn’t bother her.

  Evidently she didn’t try hard enough. Meera smiled, amused, one hand on the back of Rupert’s chair.

  ‘You’re a bit of a gypsy, they say.’

  Jess allowed herself to feel flattered. There were worse reputations to have. And she’d deserve them.

  As Meera returned to her cakes, Rupert asked, ‘Still hot on the trail of Castle Kidbury’s Satanist cult?’

  ‘You can laugh,’ said Jess, as Rupert did just that. ‘But I’m intrigued. I mean, someone’s trying to make the murder look like ancient rites, when it’s just gobbledygook.’

  ‘So this PhD of yours—’

  ‘This PhD of mine?’ It was a rebuke.

  ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to trivialise it. Your PhD . . . does it make you an authority on these things?’

  ‘My area’s history, with an emphasis on paganism. Mostly Britain and Ireland, but with bits of Scandinavia thrown in for the hell of it. Plus, of course, you can’t ignore the Greeks. But my specialism is from when the Romans left Britain till the Tudors. Roughly. In a nutshell.’

  ‘Impressive stuff. I’d just say one thing . . .’

  ‘Do tell me, Rumpole, what’s this one thing you would say?’

  ‘DS Eden. Good man. Fine detective. But he does things by the book.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘He relies on procedure, evidence, science. He’s not your old-school police, like Eddie was. No hunches. No gut feelings. He likes experts.’

  Jess wondered where this was going as bacon, eggs and tea arrived on the table.

  ‘What I’m saying,’ continued Rupert, ‘is be careful. Be mindful of Eden drawing you into a potentially disturbing case. It would be worth being a little circumspect.’

  ‘So, I need to be careful, mindful and circumspect?’ Jess did wide-eyed very well.

  ‘A little wary.’

  ‘Careful. Mindful. Circumspect. And now wary as well. Should I write this down?’

  Rupert stirred his latte. ‘Just a thought.’

  ‘Sorry, Rumpole.’ The fried egg and Rupert’s deflation softened Jess a little. ‘All my life, men in suits have told me where I’m going wrong. My grandpa, dad, brother. You all sort of sound the same to me. Pinstriped background noise. I tend to ignore it.’

  ‘Whereas you’re a better, different cliché. The headstrong lass who hides her privilege and drives an old banger around the countryside.’ Rupert sounded defensive. A little hurt.

  Which made Jess feel bad. This, she thought vehemently, this is why I don’t do men. ‘I might be exposed to yet more potentially disturbing stuff later. I’ve been asked to sit in on Pan’s police interview.’

  Rupert’s eyebrows conveyed his surprise.

  No need for Jess to admit that she’d practically begged until Eden conceded that, yes, her expertise might be useful, and she could listen in from another room.

  ‘I’m saying nothing.’ Rupert mimed pulling a zip across his mouth. A glance at his watch. ‘Bugger. I’d better dash. Got court papers coming.’ He stood as neatly as he’d seated himself. ‘So enjoy the bacon and eggs. And . . .’

  ‘And?’ Jess looked at him squarely. This talent of Rupert’s to make her smile was irritating.

  ‘Perhaps I’ll see you. Around. Around and about, that is.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Jess forked another slice of breakfast. ‘Perhaps not.’

  ‘So mysterious and elusive,’ whispered Rupert as he left. ‘With a mouthful of bacon.’

  Eden was communing with his tape machine again.

  ‘Interview with suspect known as “Pan” commencing at 13.23 on Wednesday the eighteenth of May at Castle Kidbury station with me, Detective Sergeant Eden, present and Dr Jessica Castle observing via video link.’ Eden sat back, gaze fixed on the bearded figure opposite.

  Pan smirked down at the table is if he read a joke there.

  ‘I’ll start by asking why you refused legal counsel. You know it’s your right.’

  Pan shrugged. Eyes down. Amused. Fidgeting.

  ‘Fair enough. Let’s get on with it. Do you suffer from asthma?’

  Pan shimmied provocatively. ‘Asthma, man.’ His head wobbled. ‘Asthma.’

  ‘A respiratory problem, then.’ Eden spoke deliberately. ‘Do you experience trouble breathing?’

  ‘Yeah, well, we all have trouble breathing, don’t we? Who can breathe when the air is toxic?’

  ‘Not that toxic in the West Country, surely.’

  ‘I mean pigs sharing the same air as me. Pigs poison the air.’

  Eden’s nod said he knew how this was going to play out. ‘You don’t like pigs then? We are, I assume, talking about the police force?’

  Pan shrugged. He had a repertoire of tics.

  ‘Let’s see if I can help you with that. Give you something to really dislike me for. What’s wrong with your breathing, Pan? Because you do wheeze. Snore too, according to my custody officer. Is it weed? Meth? Crack?’

  Pan gave a slow shake of his head. Eternally amused.

  Eden stood up to riffle through a stack of files. He sat heavily. ‘What’s this?’ He stabbed a finger at the drawing. The circle with the zigzag through it. The lopsided cross on top of it.

  Pan sat upright. ‘Where’d you get this?’

  ‘What is it?’

  Pan slumped. ‘You don’t recognise it? Man, it’s everywhere. It’s the “Omen of the Coming of the High Master Pig-Wizard, He Who Will Suck Life from the Bones of Men and End All Days”.’

  Eden gawped.

  Pan cackled. ‘Or something. Who knows? It looks like a very special squiggle. Well done, Mr Pig.’

  Eden stared. ‘You may think this is funny. I’m deadly serious. You’re here because of all the drugs we found lying around at Pitt’s Field, but if you want to get back to your lady friends you’ll have to answer my questions.’

  ‘I don’t do drugs. I get what I need from nature. From the cosmos. A natural high. Super-natural.’

  This excursion into transcendental territory delivered Eden a cue. ‘How do you feel about sheep, Pan?’

  Now Pan was engaged. He grinned and pulled his chair so he was locked against the table. ‘I like ’em. They’re mild. Sheepies go with the flow.’

  ‘You like them enough to steal them from farmers?’

  ‘Maybe I do.’

  ‘You like sheep enough to sacrifice them?’

  Pan threw back his head and crowed with laughter. ‘Why not? Sounds like a laugh.’

  ‘Is it a laugh to slit their throats and leave them pin
ned to barbed wire by the road?’

  Pan pursed his lips. Gave his signature shrug.

  ‘Anything else you like killing? Do you sacrifice anything else? Other animals. Pigs maybe. Or humans. Does that constitute a laugh too?’

  ‘Naughty naughty.’ Pan was lucid now, shifting his tone abruptly. His voice still had its sing-song mock-nutcase tone, but he locked eyes with the detective sergeant. ‘I know where this is heading. There’s talk, you know? People saying there’s a crazy man tearing people’s guts out, ripping their limbs off. Setting the blood free!’ Pan chuckled. ‘You know something? I get it. I get where the magic killer dude is at. I feel what he feels, because I know the devil, Mr John Eden. Just like your man does. I commune with the souls of the dead. I worship the goddess, yeah. But you have a problem.’ Pan shook his head. ‘Just because you want it to be me, don’t mean it is me.’ Pan shoved the table an inch, disturbing Eden’s mug of coffee. ‘You saying such things does not please me.’

  Eden sensed a stalemate. He shifted down a gear. ‘If you don’t do it yourself, do you get your women to do it? Perhaps you seduce them into murder. Sending girls out into the night to “set the blood free”.’

  Pan bleated his crazy laugh again. ‘Like I said, Piggy Wiggy, that sounds good. I like the Pan you’re describing. The thing is, my son, you haven’t got diddly shit on me. Maybe I’m into the sheep thing. Then again, maybe I’m not. I’ve got some big respect for whoever it is you’re after for the human sacrifice. But I didn’t do it. All you’ve got is a handful of spliffs. You know they’re for personal use. So give me an on-the-spot fine and send me on my way. The Durham pigs don’t even target recreational users anymore.’

  ‘You’re not in Durham anymore, Toto.’ Eden noticed that Pan didn’t get the Wizard of Oz reference. ‘You’re on my patch, and the reason we’ve been able to hold you is the presence of crack paraphernalia on your field.’

  ‘Not my field,’ said Pan, quick as a whip.

  ‘We found taped-up plastic bottles with straws stuck into their sides. Lighters everywhere.’

  ‘One man’s paraphernalia is another man’s trash. You found nothing like that in my van. And that’s why . . .’ Pan performed a drum roll with his nicotine-stained fingers. ‘You have to let me go.’

  ‘He’s a total arsehole,’ said Jess, hot on Eden’s heels to his office.

  ‘I’d hoped for input of a more professional nature.’ Eden sat at his desk with an audible sigh of relief.

  The desk, thought Jess, reflected his mind. It was neat. Organised. Something he could control when the rest of the world refused to cooperate. No framed photographs, she noticed. A computer. A proper pen. A stack of files that had been fastidiously tidied; Jess knew how files could take over your life if you didn’t show them who’s boss.

  ‘Knott!’

  Eden’s shout made Jess jump.

  ‘My professional input,’ began Jess. She tried to look casual, as if she sat in on police interviews every other day, while inwardly reeling from the fact that Castle Kidbury nick – that blank building in the business park at the end of Margaret Thatcher Way – really did have a video link set up for the interview rooms. She’d assumed that was the stuff of television producers’ fantasies. ‘Pan’s not specific when he talks about ritual or sacrifice. He uses colourful language but doesn’t name any deity except Satan, who’s like the Elvis of black magic; everybody knows about Satan.’ She paused. ‘Although he did mention the undead . . .’

  ‘He mentioned a goddess. Could be your . . .’ Eden tapped a key and looked at the computer screen. ‘Hecate.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Jess faced the fact that Pan had said something solid; a cold wind disturbed her excitement at being a legit police consultant. ‘Hecate, among her many other jobs, looks after the undead. The vengeful souls. He does spout a lot of random bullshit, though. Perhaps he just got lucky.’ She realised Eden was looking at her. Hard.

  ‘You don’t want it to be him.’

  ‘No. Yes. I mean,’ Jess pinned down the feeling, ‘I suppose I just don’t want to think I’ve met a sadistic killer.’

  That look again. Appraising. ‘This isn’t a hobby, Jess. This is police work. It’s not pretty.’ He shouted again – ‘Knott!’ – just as Karen appeared in the doorway.

  ‘All right, all right,’ she said, mock-shirtily. It turned to genuine shirtiness when she saw Jess.

  ‘Did you . . .’ Eden gestured at the package in her hand. ‘That urgent thing I asked you to do?’

  ‘What? Oh yes, boss. I put a tenner in the whip-round for Hemmings’ retirement on your behalf.’

  Eden’s eyelids fluttered. ‘And?’ He held out his hand.

  ‘And?’ Karen looked confused. ‘Um, and they’ll probably get him a tankard with his name on, or maybe a—’

  ‘I meant, may I have the urgent item in your hand, Knott.’

  ‘Sorry, sir, what am I like?’ giggled Karen. With great reverence, she handed Eden the rectangular cardboard box. ‘It’s been thoroughly gone over, sir. You can touch it as much as you like. They’ve cleaned it up. They took out the—’

  ‘Thank you, Knott.’

  Karen smiled and carried on. ‘—disembodied eyes.’

  ‘Eyes?’ said Jess. ‘Did she say eyes?’

  Karen slipped out.

  ‘It’s an art,’ said Eden. ‘That knack Knott has for saying exactly the wrong thing. Forget the eyes for a minute, Jess.’

  ‘Bit of an ask, but okay.’

  ‘And just talk to me about this.’ Eden set down the carved box. It glowed warmly in the frigid practicality of his office.

  ‘Wow.’ Jess bent down. She trailed a finger over the inlays. The lines. The dark trees. She looked up at Eden. Her tone was accusing. ‘How come you didn’t show me this earlier? It’s slap bang in my area. This could be the killer talking directly to us!’

  ‘Hang on a minute.’ Eden fixed on her. ‘You’re not police. I don’t have to stick every last piece of evidence under your nose just because you’ve got a GCSE in old stones. There’s a reason we don’t disclose details to the public. And you are the public, Jess.’ He seemed to hear himself, and softened slightly. ‘Besides, perhaps these images are just doodles.’

  ‘Are the Palaeolithic cave paintings in Lascaux doodles? Are the ancient murals in the Valley of the Kings doodles? Every time man daubs a mark on a surface, he’s communicating. Your signature is a symbol. That!’ Jess, revving up, pointed at the portrait of the Queen on the wall of Eden’s office. ‘She’s covered in symbols. Her crown. Her sash. Her orb. They all scream one thing: power.’ She folded her arms. ‘With her symbols, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II is warning you not to fuck with her.’

  ‘I get it,’ said Eden. Level. Contained. ‘Symbols aren’t doodles.’

  With respect, with something like awe, Jess took up the casket. It was ten centimetres by eight, about five centimetres high. A basic rectangle with a lid that fitted whisper-tight. Smooth to the touch. The inlays were flush with the polished gingernut yew. ‘This is painstakingly done.’ She lifted the lid carefully. She tried to ignore the blackish tidemark left by blood. ‘These craters? Are they where the eyes sat?’

  ‘Yes. Those lines and dashes, Jess, are they just made up?’ asked Eden.

  ‘They’re a language.’ Jess felt a vibration in the room. A green shoot of excitement. ‘It’s Ogham.’ The hollow beat of old drums sounded in her ears.

  ‘Do you . . .’ Eden sounded as if he was afraid to ask. ‘Can you read Ogham?’

  ‘I can.’ Jess felt power tingle in her fingers as she carefully replaced the lid and turned the box over and over. She had purpose. I’m useful. ‘The trees are talking to us, too.’ She stroked the four of them in turn. ‘This is an ash. This is poplar. Yew. Rowan.’

  ‘And it’s made of yew, too. Could that be significant?’

  ‘Very possibly.’

  ‘Yew trees grow in churchyards.’

  ‘They’re associated with death,
but that’s a Christian thing. Christians,’ said Jess, ‘generally ruin everything when they get involved. Your druid knew how to have a good time. To the ancient people, the yew was as much about life as it was about death. Rebirth. Yew leaves were laid on graves to remind the dead that death was just a pause before the afterlife.’

  ‘He’s mocking his victims,’ said Eden.

  ‘Hmm. Or is he promising them eternal life?’

  Knott had stolen back in. ‘Whichever it is, he’s got a bloody cheek.’

  Jess ignored her. She was deep in her own world, the equivalent of Eden’s desk; it was where she felt secure. Where she was always right. ‘Yew’s toxic, of course. The ash suggests wisdom. Protection. Poplars are about vision. Sages use it to see. To see beyond what’s around us.’

  Karen shuddered. Took a step closer to Eden.

  ‘The rowan is also about protection, but it’s connected to clarity. To showing the way.’ Jess felt her breathing quicken. ‘This box is trying to tell us something.’

  Eden’s breathing hadn’t quickened. ‘The funny lines around the sides. Is Ogham an alphabet?’

  ‘In a way. A much more instinctive, less rigid way.’ Jess loved Ogham the way some people love people. ‘See these strokes across a central perpendicular line? They refer to the first letters of trees. It’s an alphabet based on trees, if you can imagine such a thing. It’s pure,’ she said, almost to herself, as those Celtic mists curled about her.

  Knott cut through the mist. ‘Beardy-weirdy codswallop.’

  Eden stared at his constable as if wondering what he’d done in a past life to deserve her. ‘Knott,’ he said. ‘Leave us for a while, would you?’

  ‘She did not like that,’ said Jess, as Knott closed the door behind her with a little too much energy. ‘Our murderer’s familiar with Ogham. And in Ogham, the yew is very sacred.’ A thought pounced; Jess blazed. A piece had fallen into place. ‘The yew is also a reminder that this life is all illusion. This box has a secret. But if it’s telling us it has a secret . . .’

  ‘It might also give us the tools to solve it.’

  Jess sniffed the casket, sending Eden’s eyebrows up into his Lego hair. ‘Shamans used to get high on the resin from yew trees. Gave them visions.’