The Stonehenge Legacy Page 4

  He has to drink all the water to swallow them. Vicky – his ex – used to be able to pop pills, any kind, without even a sip of water, but he has to empty half the Thames down his neck to swallow just one. Funny he’s thinking about her today. It must be the whack to the head. It’s more than a year since they broke up. Queen Vic went back to Edinburgh after completing her doctorate, as she’d always threatened to do, and the separation made them both realise that it was the right time to move on. Shame, Gideon thinks, there are times when he still misses her. Like now.

  Sister Willoughby is hovering.

  ‘Do you think you’re up to visitors?’ She sounds almost apologetic.

  Gideon’s not sure how to answer. ‘What kind?’

  ‘The police. There’s a lady Detective Inspector just arrived in reception.’ A hint of mischief twinkles in her eyes. ‘You don’t have to see her if you don’t feel up to it. I can have her sent away.’

  ‘It’s fine. I’ll see her. Thanks.’ His head throbs out a protest. Megan Baker is emphatically not the kind of company he wants right now.

  14

  The Inner Circle assembles in one of the outer chambers of the Sanctuary. A waist-high ring of purest beeswax candles casts a spectral glow over the emergency gathering convened by the Keeper.

  Musca stands in the centre, disgrace hanging like a stone around his neck.

  ‘You have failed.’ Draco’s voice cannons off the cavernous stone walls. ‘Failed your brothers, failed our Craft and endangered all we stand for.’

  Musca knows better than to protest.

  Draco’s voice grows cruel. ‘For the sake of us all, summarise the list of “gifts” you left for the police.’

  Musca recites them blankly. ‘A tool bag. There was a crowbar, screwdriver, hammer, duct tape, wire cutters—’

  Draco interrupts: ‘And enough DNA to convict you for burglary, arson and perhaps attempted murder.’

  ‘It’s not traceable to me.’

  ‘As yet.’

  ‘I have no criminal record,’ protests Musca. ‘My fingerprints or genetic fingerprints are not on file anywhere.’

  Draco slaps him across the face. ‘Don’t add insolence to incompetence. Afford me the respect I deserve as Keeper of the Inner Circle.’

  Musca puts a hand to his stinging cheek. ‘I apologise.’

  Draco looks across the darkened room. ‘Grus, can we make this evidence go away?’

  ‘Have it lost?’

  Draco nods.

  ‘Not yet. There is the small matter of the policeman he assaulted as well. But later, yes. I’m confident that can be done.’

  ‘Good.’ He turns back to Musca. ‘Did anyone see your face?’

  ‘Not the policeman, it was dark. But the son. I am certain he saw me.’

  Draco bounces a question across the chamber: ‘Do we know how he is, where he is?’

  The smallest among them, a red-haired brother known as Fornax, answers. ‘He’s in hospital in Salisbury, detained overnight, no serious injuries. He’ll be discharged tomorrow, perhaps even later today.’

  Grus speaks out, his voice calm and mature: ‘The Lookers will keep tabs on him as he leaves.’

  ‘Good.’ Draco has another question for Musca. ‘To be clear, you found nothing inside the house that would alert the world to us?’

  ‘Nothing. I searched all the rooms. Upstairs and downstairs. There were hundreds – perhaps thousands – of books, but no records, no documentation and no letters that in any way mentioned the Sacreds or our Craft.’

  Grus speaks again. ‘Perhaps he remained loyal until the end.’

  Draco doesn’t think so. ‘We know of your affection for our lost brother, but it is misplaced. His suicide is more than untimely; it’s selfish and potentially disastrous. He knew what was planned and what was expected of him.’

  The Keeper switches his attention back to Musca. ‘You are absolutely certain that there was nothing in that house that referred to us and our Craft?’

  ‘If there was, there isn’t now. I’m sure the fire destroyed the entire contents of the study.’

  Draco’s anger and anxiety subside. Perhaps the mistake with the forgotten bag is the price that has to be paid for a cleansing fire that safeguards the secrecy of the Craft. But a bigger problem remains. Nathaniel Chase had a vital role to play in the Craft’s destiny. A key position in the second phase of the ceremony.

  Now he’s gone, that role has to be filled.

  And quickly.

  15

  Megan Baker smoothes out her charcoal-grey mid-length suit skirt and sits on the hard chair next to Gideon’s bed. ‘So, what on earth happened to you?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t remember much.’

  She glances to the nurse now at her side. ‘Is there somewhere more private than this? A place he and I can talk?’

  The nurse has to think for a second. ‘There’s an examination room down the corridor.’ She points. ‘Use that. Flip the sign on the door so you don’t get disturbed.’

  Megan looks back towards Gideon. ‘Are you good to walk?’

  ‘Sure. I’m fine.’ He slowly swings his legs out of bed, taking care the ill-fitting pyjamas don’t reveal more of him than is acceptable. ‘Forgive my appearance.’ He gestures to the striped and faded flannels that finish way above his ankles.

  They enter the room and the nurse leaves them.

  Megan flips the sign to ‘Engaged’, shuts the door and pulls out two chairs, one from behind a desk. ‘So what happened after you left the police station?’

  He feels stupid. ‘I hadn’t really thought things through. After I left you, I realised I didn’t have anywhere to stay. It seemed like a good idea to go to my father’s and sleep there. I suppose deep down I felt drawn to it.’

  ‘That’s natural enough.’

  ‘Maybe. Anyway, the back door had been broken open so I called 999 and went to have a look around.’

  She laces one leg over the other. ‘You should have waited until the patrol car arrived. Didn’t they tell you to wait?’

  He can’t remember if they did, but he doesn’t want to get anyone in trouble. ‘I suspect so. I just wanted to have a look inside and make sure I hadn’t raised a false alarm.’

  ‘Which you clearly hadn’t.’

  ‘No. I hadn’t. I saw this man in my father’s study. He was setting it on fire.’

  ‘How? What exactly was he doing?’

  The image is clear in the archaeologist’s head. ‘He had one hand – his left – full of papers and he lit them with a cigarette lighter, one of those cheap little ones.’

  ‘Disposable. A BIC?’

  ‘Something like that. He lit the papers, then set the curtains on fire and was about to do the same with my father’s desk.’

  ‘When you confronted him?’

  ‘No, not exactly. At first I just pulled the door shut and locked him in. Then I realised I had to let him out, otherwise he’d have probably died.’

  ‘Some people might have been tempted to leave him in there.’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘Good job you didn’t. I’d be charging you with a criminal offence this morning if you had done.’

  ‘I know.’

  She studies him. He’s an academic, not a fighter. One of those men who looks tall enough and fit enough to handle himself but evidently never learned how.

  ‘So you opened the door and he just starts laying into you?’

  ‘Virtually. He pushed me out of the way and I grabbed him around the waist, rugby-style. Only I didn’t take him down and he started punching and kicking me.’

  She looks at the bruising. It’s unusual. ‘He cut your cheek quite badly. From the mark, I’d say he was wearing some jewellery on his right hand, maybe a signet ring.’

  ‘I didn’t notice. Just the pain.’

  ‘I imagine.’ She lifts her handbag from the floor. ‘You mind if I take a shot of this, the outline is really clear?’

  ‘I suppose no
t.’

  She slides back the cover on the tiny Cyber-shot that she carries, then virtually blinds him with a camera flash. ‘Sorry,’ she says from behind the lens, ‘just one more.’

  Another flash and she clicks it closed. ‘We may want SOCO to look at that.’ She drops the camera back in her bag. ‘If we can catch the guy that laid that ring on you, he should go down for assault, burglary and arson. A nice trio, he could get a good stretch for that.’

  ‘Could?’

  ‘Afraid so. The English judiciary will listen to any sob stor ies about him wetting the bed as a child, his father being an alcoholic or such like. They call it mitigating circumstances. Did you get a good look at him?’

  Disappointment shows on Gideon’s face. ‘No, I’m afraid not. It all happened so quickly and it was really dark.’

  Megan has a degree in psychology and spent two years working on secondment to one of Britain’s top profilers. She can see a lie coming before it’s even crossed a guy’s lips. She frowns and tries to look confused. ‘I don’t quite get it. You clearly noticed the lighter in his hand – the BIC. But you didn’t see his face.’

  Gideon feels uncomfortable. ‘I don’t know. I guess my eyes were drawn to the flame.’

  ‘I can understand that. But despite all the light from the fire – from the papers in his hand and from the blazing curtains – you didn’t get at least enough of a look at him to give a rough description?’

  He shrugs. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Mr Chase, I want to help you. But you’re going to have to trust me.’

  He looks surprised. ‘I do. Why wouldn’t I?’

  She ignores the question. ‘Are you sure you can’t tell us anything about the man. His size? Weight? Hair colour? Clothing? Anything?’

  He can feel her eyes boring through him but he’s staying silent. He has a photograph of the man, snapped on his mobile phone, just before he’d shut the door. The burglar must have been there in connection with his father’s secrets, and he intends to discover precisely what they are long before the police do.

  Megan is still waiting for an answer.

  He shakes his head. ‘I’m sorry. I just can’t help you.’

  She flashes him a smile so bright he nearly flinches. ‘You will,’ she says with an icy coldness. ‘Believe me, you will.’

  16

  STONEHENGE

  Protecting the precious stones principally means stopping people from climbing on them or defacing them. To that end, English Heritage has erected fences, traffic barriers and ropes, and only allows people into the roped-off relics on special occasions or with written permission.

  The government-funded body is good at its job but has no idea just how devoted some of its subcontracted security staff are. The likes of Sean Grabb are devout members of the Followers of the Sacreds. Long after their paid shifts have finished, they still watch the precious site.

  Thirty-five-year-old Grabb is one of those sleeves-rolled-up, slightly overweight guys who always gets a job done and is never short of a good word for those who work for him. He heads up a team of Lookers who keep Stonehenge under constant vigil. Three hundred and sixty degrees. Twenty-four hours a day. Seven days a week. Three hundred and sixty-five days a year.

  He and his Lookers never stop looking. Some of it is done openly during the Heritage-paid shifts, some covertly by tiny remote cameras strategically placed across the landscape.

  Grabb has been a Looker for ten years. Known inside the Craft as Serpens, he is following in the deep footsteps of his father, grandfather and every other traceable male in the paternal line. With him today is twenty-five-year-old Lee Johns, a relatively new recruit, yet to be formally admitted into the Craft’s hallowed ranks. He’s tall and thin with pimply, undernourished skin and, outside of his work uniform, lives in unwashed denims and rock band T-shirts. He’s not too bright and has weathered his share of problems, including drugs and homelessness. By his early twenties, society had written him off as an eco-hippie troublemaker. For a while he sought solace in the company of other protestors and agitators. He never totally fitted in.

  His life started to have meaning only when he drifted down to Stonehenge en route to Glastonbury, where he’d hoped to score some cheap gear and maybe string together a bit of money from low-level dealing. But he never made it to the music gathering. The solstice was so breathtaking he felt unable to even move from the henge. He stayed, helping clear up and volunteering for any kind of work in relation to the magical stones.

  He’s been working with Sean for close on three years now and they have something of a master and apprentice relationship. Sean is his sponsor and dispenses wisdom as regularly as he does the sludgy brown tea from his trusty flask. Every watch he quizzes his protégé in the effort to ensure he’s fit to be admitted into the closed circle of the Followers.

  ‘Question one.’ Grabb gives his pupil a pay-attention stare. ‘What are the stones and what do they mean to those of us in the Craft?’

  Johns grins – an easy one. ‘The stones are our Sacreds. They are the source of all our earthly energy. They are our protectors, our guardians and our life force.’

  Grabb splashes a reward of tea into Lee’s brown-ringed mug. ‘Good. And why do the Sacreds bestow such blessings on us?’

  Johns cradles the dark elixir as they stand by the traffic barrier on the car park. ‘We are the Followers of the Sacreds, descendants of those who placed the great ones here thousands of years ago. The bones and blood of our ancestors nourish the Sacreds in their resting places, just as one day our remains will follow them and complete the circle.’

  Steam wafts from the top of Grabb’s steel thermos cup. He sips the hot tea and asks, ‘And how do the Sacreds bless us?’

  ‘With their spiritual energy. They transfer it through the stones to us and their blessing protects us from the ravages of illness and the humiliation of poverty.’

  Grabb is pleased. His pupil is learning his catechism well and that can only reflect kindly on him. He pours more tea into Lee’s mug. ‘And what do the Sacreds expect in return?’

  ‘Respect.’ He pronounces the word with sincerity. ‘We must recognise them, respect them, have faith in them and follow their teachings through their appointed oracle, the Henge Master.’

  ‘That’s right, Lee. Remember those who would steal our heritage. Remember the Catholics and their commandments written in stone supposedly passed down from God. They cooked up that story two thousand years after the Sacreds had been established here in England.’

  Lee nods. He understands. He must not be sidetracked or seduced by other religions, false-belief systems that have big gold glittering palaces for adoration, that collect money each week from congregations and create their own banks and states. ‘Sean,’ he starts, thirsty for reassurance. ‘I know you can trace your bloodline all the way back to the greats who carried the bluestones and the sarsens. I understand why that makes you worthy for the blessing and protection of the Sacreds, but what about people like me? We’re outsiders. We don’t come from around here.’

  Grabb recognises the insecurity; it’s a regular thing with Lee. ‘We are all from around here, my friend. Five thousand years ago the population of Britain was tiny. Way back then, you and I were probably brothers, or cousins at worst.’

  Johns likes that idea. And it makes sense too. Even the Christians believe in Adam and Eve and how one moment of sex somehow spawned all of mankind. Or something like that, he can’t quite remember. Brothers – him and Sean.

  ‘You’re doing real well, Lee.’ Grabb puts a broad arm around the kid’s near skeletal shoulders and shows him how proud he is.

  But in reality he’s worried – worried about how his protégé will face up to the horrors of the challenge that awaits.

  17

  After a tetanus shot and what he viewed as a completely unnecessary taking of blood, Gideon is discharged from hospital in the late afternoon. The only good thing is that the DI was able to get the keys to his fa
ther’s house biked over before the discharge was completed.

  Approaching the grand house in a taxi from the hospital, he can see that the damage is considerable. The lawns have been churned up by fire engines and the side of the building is shrouded in the remnants of black smoke. Windows are blown in and boarded up, brickwork cracked.

  Right now he doesn’t care. The place is still just bricks and mortar to him. Only when he lets himself in through the colossal front door does he feel any emotion.

  When his mother died, Gideon was distraught. He went from being confident and extrovert, trusting in the world and his place in it, to being disturbingly introverted and wary of people. The death of his father is bringing on another change. He is uncertain of what but he feels it. Inside him is a volatile mix of anger, frustration, resentment and a residue of unfairness. A swirling blend of components that he knows is going to alter the DNA of his personality irrevocably.

  He wanders the big empty house and feels acutely alone. He has no brothers or sisters, no grandparents. No children. He is the end of the Chase line. What he does with the remainder of his life will determine not only what the world thinks of him but the whole Chase lineage.

  He drops his jacket in the hall. Climbs the grand staircase to a long open first-floor landing and searches for a place to wash and crash for a while.

  The house is plainly not equipped for life four hundred years after it was built. The big rooms with their high ceilings must cost a fortune to heat. No wonder his father appears to have lived in only a couple. The windows are draughty and need replacing. Most of the walls are flaked with damp. Floors creak worse than the planks of an old sailing ship in a storm and it must be fifty years since the place saw a decent lick of paint.

  His father’s bedroom is the smallest of all and gives him the strangest of feelings. It’s crammed with emptiness. The old man’s things are everywhere but they have become depersonalised, as though blasted with some radioactivity that eradicated all trace of him.

  A pile of books towers by the bed. Near them is a white mug, an inch of tea still in it, a crust of mould on the surface. He guesses it was the last morning cuppa or late-night drink his father tasted.