Catacombs of Terror! (9 page)

“Could I have a glass of that whiskey?”

“Sure.” I poured.

“Karen Eliot is, as I said, one of Them. Barry didn't know this when he married her. He soon found out. Karen used him to, er, to supply sperm. Into specimen jars that were refrigerated and used, somehow, by Them. That is what Barry was for. That's what he had to do. In exchange, his property development firm became spectacularly powerful. He gained contacts, influential friends. He gained power. For a long time he was quite happy about the arrangement. But as he grew closer to Them, and was drawn into their circle of influence—well, then he began to feel scared. And he began to sense that he was witnessing the build-up—the rapid build-up—to something terrible. That was when he contacted me. My own studies include this, well, this sort of thing . . . he came across a paper of mine and thought that I might be able to help him find out what was going on and—if necessary—to stop it. Or try to.”

“Sperm? For fuck's sake. This is ludicrous. And KHS? What's your explanation for them?”

“Kelley Historical Services is one of the organisations AFFA use to get things done in an apparently legitimate manner. KHS are named after Edward Kelley, who was alive in the sixteenth century. He was a medium. He could see, or at least talk to, spirits. Or angels. Whatever you like to call them. I would say that now the consensus is that they were—are—demons. He came here with his master, John Dee, Doctor John Dee. They travelled in great secrecy. There are virtually no records of their ever having visited, but it's more or less down to that pair that we are now facing the problems we are. They discovered, or were led by these demons to some alchemical materials that the prior of the Abbey had carefully hidden during the Dissolution of the Monasteries. These were very, very powerful materials. Very dangerous materials. I mean, a modern equivalent would be the
precisely labelled ingredients for a biological weapon
. That's how dangerous. And we think that these same materials are being used now. Today. By AFFA.”

“Fucking hell. Okay. Right, I got to thinking that ScryTech were effectively the same outfit as KHS and, from what you say—Them. Would I have been right? Or would I have been right?”

Stonehenge nodded.

“Yes. John Dee referred to Kelley as his
scryer
. Therefore
ScryTech
. Kelley communicated with the spirits—he ‘read' or ‘scried' a crystal. It was an eye between the worlds. I assume that AFFA find this sort of obscure wordplay amusing.”

“Amusing? My fucking sides are splitting.”

I walked over to the window and looked out at the rain. I had a hopeless sort of feeling about this. It seemed ludicrous. Ridiculous. Hilarious. Stuff like that. Amusing? Oh, for sure. I reached inside my pocket and got my wrap of cocaine. I racked up a line and dealt with it quickly and efficiently. Stonehenge watched me, his eyebrows maybe raised a little. Well, I didn't care. He could raise them up to his hairline if he liked.

“Why me? You said something about finding out how ‘reliable' I was. Something like that. But why the hell did you have to pick on me in the first place?”

I felt pretty strongly about this.

“Why not? Barry knew who you were. You're a private investigator.”

“So if Barry hadn't caught me with Karen, I'd have been left alone? None of this would have happened?”

“All of this would have happened. If Barry hadn't been, um, introduced to you, so to speak, you might not have been directly involved with us, no. But we probably would have used you anyway. Your name's in the phonebook, after all. There aren't too many private investigators in the city. And once we found out you were going to be framed for something you didn't do . . . well.”

This was bad. I guess I'd known that no good would come of sleeping with Karen. At least she hadn't made me fill up a specimen jar. Well, not as far as I knew, anyway. I did another line, and walked over to the couch. I sat down next to Stonehenge.

“So,” I said in one of my most pissed-off voices, “what is all this about me being arrested for some kind of bizarre murder scenario on Monday? The Karen connection again, I guess?”

“I'm afraid so. A sacrifice is indeed planned for the early hours of the 13th of July. The anniversary of Doctor Dee's birth. But the date isn't really important. AFFA have been sacrificing human beings for centuries. Some of the victim's—er—internal organs are needed for one of Their alchemical actions. Obviously such a horrendous crime cannot be seen to go unpunished. Karen suggested you as the fall guy.”

As he was saying this, Stonehenge poured himself another drink. Quite a small one, given the circumstances, I thought.

“Well, that's nice,” I said, “that's really good of her. Considerate, even. Thanks, Karen. At least she remembered me, hey?”

Stonehenge sipped at his whiskey. He didn't say anything. Nor did I. I couldn't believe it.
Karen.
I felt sadder than I thought I could manage. I used my mouth to smoke a cigarette. I thought about innocent little flies caught in big sticky webs, and about the sad, muffled buzzing sound they made as the spider cocooned them in silk.

“And at least she didn't pick me to be the murder victim. I can think about that, and it makes me feel better. Not much better. They're really going to knock someone off?”

Stonehenge shrugged his shoulders.

“It's not like it'll be the first time. They've been killing people for years. For centuries, as I said. I've done some research into excavations that have gone on at the city Baths at various times. During one excavation, back in 1882, more than sixty skeletons were found. Only two of them were complete. The rest were . . . scattered. There were what looked like saw marks on the bones. As if they'd been . . . well, you can imagine. And there were some Saxon ovens found nearby. The ovens had human heads in them.”

My mind felt like it was lurching from side to side. “What else?” I asked in a voice that didn't sound much like mine.

“I also tried to find out if any strange murders—I mean, this is real Jack the Ripper type stuff we're talking about—had taken place over the last couple of centuries, because you'd have thought that they would have been reported in the newspapers. Locally and nationally. And if you look hard enough—as I did—you can find them. But there's always something odd about the cases. The guilty party is always found, and is always . . . too obvious. It's like reading a badly written murder mystery.”

“Any idea who they're going to kill?”

“Not a clue. Barry tried to find out from Karen, but he thinks even she doesn't know. I would imagine that kind of decision is taken at the very highest level.”

“You're saying that there is an elite within the elite? A boss or whatever?”

“I would think so. Barry says there is, but again, it's one of the things that he doesn't get told.”

“However many specimen jars he fills.”

Stonehenge looked uncomfortable. He took another sip of whiskey. Suddenly I remembered Kafka's message on the answerphone. Call him. Urgently. My watch said 10:15
P.M
. Okay. I picked up the phone and dialled his mobile number.

“Colin? Yeah, it's me. Yeah. I got your message. That's why I'm phoning, you dope. Yes, I have been busy. I've been very fucking busy. Can you get over to my office? Look, just come over here. I'll tell you when you get here, okay? I'm not talking about any of this over the phone. Well, if ‘paranoid' means feeling that people are out to get me, then yes, I fucking well am. You'll be here in ten minutes? Okay.” I slammed the phone down. I turned back to Stonehenge.

“My contact is coming over. You cool about that?”

“Who is your contact?”

“A guy called Kafka. Colin Kafka. He's a hack on the local rag, but he's kosher. I know him from way back. He knows something's going on and he knows that it's dodgy. He arranged my meeting with ScryTech. I told him about Charlcombe, too. We can trust him. Well, I'm pretty sure we can. It's not like we have a choice, anyway.”

Stonehenge closed his eyes for a second or two.

“You're right. I'll stay for a while. But I have to go soon. Barry and I have work to do. There isn't much time . . . .”

He was damn right about that. My liberty was dripping away in front of me. I wondered what the hell I was going to do. This line of thought was becoming a habit. And it hadn't ever done me any good. Some more time passed. There was a knock at the door. I went over and let Kafka in.

He wasn't wet. “Has it stopped raining?” I asked him.

“Uh-huh. Stopped an hour ago. Maybe more.”

I furrowed my brow. Anyway. The weather was the least of my worries.

“This is Colin Kafka,” I said to Stonehenge. “Colin, this is . . . call him Stonehenge. He won't tell me his name. But he told me a whole lot of other stuff. Stonehenge, tell Colin what's going on. Colin? Sit down. I'll get you a drink.”

Stonehenge talked to Kafka for a little while. I used the time to smoke some more cigarettes. I also paid attention to the way the hands moved on my watch. They moved forward. I couldn't do anything about that, but it wasn't good. I looked out of the window. It was raining.

Kafka made some surprised noises while Stonehenge filled him in. He didn't break anything though. Maybe that was just me. I put all my cocaine on the desk and split it into four piles. I scooped up each into a separate wrap. At one stage in his lecture, Colin held his hand out, holding his empty glass. I filled it for him. Stonehenge reached the end of his spiel.

“So it's true,” said Kafka. “You're going to be arrested. Someone else is going to be murdered. Hey, Valpolicella. You get off lightly.”

“It had occurred to me. Not as lightly as I'd like, though. What I'd prefer is that I get off. End of story.” Then I told him about my day. My fun day, with all the great stuff in it. About the CCTV control room and more particularly about being followed, kidnapped, beaten up, and dumped in a field. He looked a little concerned about that, but I told him it was all in the past. I'd put it behind me. Then I told him that I'd got an idea.

“It's not very well thought out or anything, but it's all I've got. You don't get claustrophobia, do you?”

Kafka looked hard at me. “What do you want?”

“I want to go back down that hole at Charlcombe. And you're coming with me.”

Kafka started to shake his head, but I wasn't standing for that kind of crap. I wasn't in the mood to argue.

“You want your fucking story? Come and get it. This isn't local. It's national. It's international. It's syndication.
Understand?
”

Kafka nodded, numbly.

“You're coming with me. You can borrow a flashlight and everything. See how generous I am? And you can have this, too.” I passed him one of the little coke wraps. He walked over to the desk, emptied it out, and hoovered it up in one go. He inhaled again, deeply. He turned to me. His eyes were shining.

“I'll do it,” he said.

There was something I thought I might need. And I remembered someone who might be able to help me out. I didn't have a number for her, but I could recall where she lived. It turned out that Stonehenge had a car, so I told him to get it. He was back inside ten minutes. I told him to take us up to the suburbs on the northern slopes of the city. An acquaintance of mine had a big house up there. She was a commodities trader or something. Whatever. She pulled in a lot of dough. But I had something on her. Ancient history, but it's good to keep a mental record of favours owed.

Stonehenge kept the engine running while I rang the bell. She was at home. She was surprised to see me. Not pleasantly surprised, but I persuaded her to let me in out of the rain. She was having some kind of dinner party or something, so we had to talk in the hallway. It was a nice hallway. Big. Elegant. I fitted right in. Oh, for sure.

We had a whispered conversation. She whispered furiously, which I didn't know was possible. Not as furiously as she managed it, anyway. I kept calm. I said that I didn't have a lot of time. I said I'd explain later. I said she didn't have to be involved, or connected. I said a few other things. I don't remember what. Anyway, it must have worked, because I was ushered out four minutes later with a pistol in my pocket. She slammed the door as we drove off. I hoped her dinner party was a success.

Stonehenge took us further up the hill, then down a lane to Charlcombe. I checked out the gun. Okay. It was a gun, and it had some bullets in it.

“What the hell is that?” squeaked Kafka. I shrugged my shoulders. I didn't bother saying anything. I couldn't think of many words that wouldn't sound stupid. Stonehenge dropped us off at the bottom of a little track leading up to the church. We got out of the car.

“I'm not sure of the wisdom of this,” said Stonehenge. “But there's no time to worry. Be extremely careful,” he said, “and don't use your torches until you get down into the hole. I don't know what you'll find down there. What's your mobile phone number?”

I gave it to him.

“I'll telephone you at eight tomorrow morning. If you don't answer I'll call again at nine
A.M
. And again at ten
A.M
. If you don't answer any of these calls, I shall assume that I won't be seeing you again. Ever. If you find yourself in a tight spot, on no account mention Barry or myself. On no account. Understand?”

I nodded. He nodded back. He pulled the door closed after us, quietly. He wound down his window. “Good luck,” he said. And he drove away.

I led Kafka along the lane for fifty yards or so, until we reached a gap in the hedge. The dig would be somewhere below us. I couldn't see it yet, but I knew it was there. We left the lane and picked our way through the wet grass. Colin was complaining about the rain. That was okay. The weather was the least of my worries. I saw the tarpaulins that covered the dig a little further down into the valley. It was a very still night. No breeze at all. Only the continual whisper of the rain and, I thought, the beating of my heart. I think I was scared. It was getting cold. I guessed it was what, midnight? Or later. It was the witching hour. Thirteen o'clock, and I was going to climb down a sixty-foot deep hole that led to the underground domain of a cabal of power-crazed lunatics who figured they were about to control the world. It wasn't smart, what I was doing. It wasn't smart, and it wasn't clever.