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  ‘I’m going to drive out to Dexter Grange, have a word with the bloke who owns the place,’ the inspector announced. ‘He might have seen something. His house is only a mile or so away.’

  ‘Henry Dexter?’ said Constable Greene. ‘He lives like a hermit. Never leaves the house, I hear.’

  ‘Well, then, a visitor `will make a change for him, won’t it?’ Wallace said, trudging off through the trees. ‘Besides,’ he muttered to himself, ‘he might have a light.’

  The inspector put away the cigarette once more and headed for his car.

  Twenty

  Wallace lit the cigarette from the lighter inside the car. He pushed it between his lips and sucked hard, enjoying the hot, comforting sensation as he swallowed the smoke. He had the front windows open, allowing the breeze to circulate inside the Sierra. It went some way to dispelling the smell of Chinese food left over from the previous night. The fresh-air ball which hung from the rear-view mirror had long since ceased to function.

  The trees on the right-hand side of the road gradually gave way to a high stone wall topped at regular intervals by ornate carvings, most of which carried a patina of mould. A lion. A unicorn. And, perched on either side of the main gates, two eagles. Wallace swung the Sierra across the road and guided it up the long drive which led to Dexter Grange.

  The house was clearly visible as soon as he passed through the gate, built as it was on a slight rise. It was an imposing place, Wallace had to admit. It reminded him of a stately home. As he drew closer he slowed down, stubbing the cigarette out in the ashtray. There was a large gravelled area in front of the house and the policeman was surprised to see a Jensen parked there. He brought his own car to a halt and climbed out, adjusting his tie and running one hand through his dark hair before approaching the main door. He reached out and banged with the huge brass knocker three times.

  He waited a moment, then lifted the intricately carved metal object once more. Before he could knock again, the door opened a fraction.

  Wallace found himself facing a rather bewildered-looking young girl.

  Laura Price looked him up and down slowly and smiled.

  ‘My name’s Wallace,’ he said, producing his I. D. card. ‘I’d like to speak to Mr Dexter if I can.’

  He saw her smile fade as she stepped back into the house. She wore jeans and a voluminous grey sweatshirt with the sleeves pulled up past her elbows.

  ‘Police?’ she said, hurriedly tugging the sleeves down over her forearms.

  He nodded, frowning as he caught a vague glimpse of the scars on the inside of her left arm.

  ‘Come in,’ Laura said, opening the door, careful to avoid his gaze. ‘You’ll have to wait, though. He’s got someone with him.’

  The inspector stepped inside the hall, eyeing the girl suspiciously.

  The walls were oak-panelled, completely bare, not a single picture or ornament to be seen. The ceiling curved up to a great height, giving the hall the appearance of an immaculately kept mausoleum. The floor, also dark wood, was devoid of carpet. A number of doors, all closed, led off from the corridor along which Laura escorted him.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

  ‘I thought you wanted to speak to Mr Dexter,’ Laura said curtly.

  ‘I do. I also asked what your name is.’

  She told him almost grudgingly, aware of his eyes on her as she led him into a room and invited him to sit down. The room was pleasantly bright, with French windows looking out onto the driveway. There was no carpet here either, but there were paintings on the wall and two or three carvings on the mantel over the marble fireplace.

  ‘How old are you?’ he wanted to know.

  Look, have I done something wrong?’

  ‘Just tell me. How old are you?’

  ‘Eighteen,’ she lied. ‘And before you ask, I’ve left school. I’m Mr Dexter’s friend. I do jobs for him.’

  ‘That sounds cosy,’ said Wallace. ‘What sort of jobs?’

  ‘Well,’ she said guardedly, ‘mostly errands and things. I do his shopping. He doesn’t like to go into town.’

  Wallace crossed to the fireplace and examined one of the carvings there. It was a male figure, the penis erect and disproportionately large. The one next to it was of a woman bending over. There was a large hole hollowed out between the legs. The policeman guessed that both pieces were made from ivory. He didn’t attempt to estimate their value.

  ‘Very tasteful,’ he said sarcastically, fitting the two figures together. ‘I had to make do with Lego when I was a kid.’

  ‘I don’t think Mr Dexter would like it if he knew you’d been playing about with those pieces. They’re very valuable.’ She turned and headed for the door, pausing as she reached it. ‘I don’t know how long he’ll be,’ she said, and with that, she was gone.

  Wallace stood beside the fireplace a moment longer, then wandered over to the huge bookcase which covered most of the wall to his right. The inspector scanned the titles of some of the volumes, noticing that many were roughly bound, as if Dexter had done the binding himself, with titles handwritten in ink:

  SATANISM TODAY

  DEMONOLOGY

  PAGAN RITES – THE NEW RELIGION

  NECROPHILIA AND BESTIALITY

  Wallace paused at one in particular and lifted it down from the shelf.

  SACRIFICE AND POWER was neatly inscribed on the spine. The policeman flipped open the cover and scanned the closely-written A4 sheets. The volume was at least two inches thick, the words crammed together as if space was at a premium. He wondered how long it had taken Dexter to complete so much work. Wallace glanced through a chapter headed RITUAL SLAUGHTER, then replaced the volume and walked towards the centre of the room, his shoes echoing on the hardwood floor.

  He heard voices, low and muffled at first.

  Wallace paused, trying to locate the direction from which they came.

  He heard the voices again, louder this time, more forceful.

  The inspector strode to the door, realizing that the sounds were coming from the room across the corridor. He stood motionless for a moment, then slowly turned the handle, opened the door a crack and peered out.

  The corridor was empty.

  The sound of raised voices was much clearer now, though. Wallace detected anger in one of them. He crossed the corridor and pressed his ear to the door opposite, trying to make sense of the conversation.

  ‘. . . the land isn’t yours, you have no right . . .’

  ‘You have no right, Mr Dexter. I have the deeds with me and . . .’

  ‘I don’t care about legal documents, that land has always belonged to my family . . .’

  ‘I’m afraid that doesn’t entitle you to any claim on it now. If you’d look at these deeds . . .’

  Wallace frowned, wondering who Dexter was talking to. He didn’t recognize the voice, but whoever it was, he seemed to be growing as angry as Dexter himself.

  ‘. . . the wood will be flattened, with or without your cooperation, Mr Dexter.’

  The wood.

  Wallace chewed his lip contemplatively. Did they mean that wood?

  ‘Get out of my house, Cutler . . .’

  The inspector stepped back.

  Cutler. The land developer. So that was who Dexter was arguing with. The policeman heard the sounds of footsteps from inside the room. He scuttled back across the corridor, stepping into the library but leaving the door slightly ajar. A moment later he heard the door on the other side of the corridor burst open and slam back against the wall.

  ‘Get out and take your bloody deeds with you, Cutler.’

  The policeman pressed his eye close to the door and caught sight of Cutler and Dexter facing one another.

  ‘I came here to try and talk this situation through reasonably,’ the property developer said in a quieter tone. ‘It’s obvious that I overestimated your ability to hold a sensible conversation.’

  ‘Don’t patronize me, Cutler. Get out of here and stay away from my wo
od,’ snarled Dexter.

  ‘It isn’t yours. It never has been.’

  ‘I’m warning you,’ Dexter said, taking a step towards the other man.

  Cutler was unimpressed. He merely turned and walked towards the main door, his back to Dexter.

  ‘I’ll see myself out,’ he said, closing the door gently as Dexter stood glaring angrily after him.

  Wallace waited a moment, then stepped out of the room.

  ‘I hope I haven’t come at a bad time,’ he said, smiling.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ Dexter exclaimed, spinning round.

  Wallace introduced himself.

  The older man was silent for a moment, running appraising eyes over Wallace, aware that his own face was still flushed with anger from the row with Cutler.

  ‘I’d like a word with you, if it’s not inconvenient,’ Wallace continued.

  Dexter, regaining his composure, ushered the policeman into his study where they sat down opposite one another.

  Wallace told him about the discovery of the dead goat and the other animals that had been found in the wood.

  ‘Is that wood part of your land, Mr Dexter?’ he asked finally.

  ‘Technically, no, but my family have owned all the other land around this house for hundreds of years, and the wood was always considered part of our property by the local people. That wood is as much mine as the ground out there, if centuries of tradition mean anything. He motioned towards a large expanse of lawn right outside the window. ‘Despite what Cutler says,’ he added, almost as an afterthought.

  ‘I overheard your disagreement, but coming back to what I said about the slaughtered animals, have you any idea how the carcasses ended up in the wood?’

  ‘You’re the policeman, Wallace.’

  ‘What about the girl who lives with you? Might she know?’

  Dexter shot the inspector a wary glance.

  ‘No,’ he said flatly.

  ‘I hope she’s older than she looks, Dexter. She tells me she’s eighteen. Do her parents know she’s here?’

  ‘She has no parents. I suppose you could say I’m the only family she’s got.’ He grinned crookedly.

  ‘How touching.’

  There was a heavy silence between the two men, finally broken by Wallace.

  ‘Why does that wood mean so much to you?’ he wanted to know.

  ‘I don’t want builders ruining land less than a mile from my house,’ the older man said.

  ‘That doesn’t answer my question.’

  ‘It’s been part of the landscape for centuries. Cutler has no right to destroy it. It’s as simple as that.’

  Wallace got to his feet and headed for the study door.

  ‘I hope you’re right about that girl’s age,’ he said cryptically, then closed the door behind him. Dexter listened as the sound of his footsteps echoed down the corridor. A moment later Laura entered.

  ‘What did he want?’ she asked.

  ‘He wanted to know if I knew anything about dead animals in the wood. He also was curious about you.’

  She looked suddenly afraid.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Dexter said reassuringly. ‘He doesn’t know anything. Besides, it’s not the police who are the problem now. It’s that bastard Cutler.’ He leant back in his seat, his eyes gazing ahead, full of anger.

  Twenty-One

  The lights flickered, then went out.

  In the tunnel, George Perry looked up toward the string of light bulbs, muttering under his breath as he stood enveloped in darkness.

  He waited, and a moment later the tunnel was filled with a dull yellow light once more.

  ‘I think that generator’s on the blink,’ he said, lifting the sword carefully from the earth. He glanced at the hilt, which was fashioned in the shape of a man with arms and legs spread wide. The archaeologists had found many of these anthropomorphic designs on sword and dagger hilts.

  Ian Russell shivered, rubbing his exposed forearms briskly.

  ‘It’s so bloody cold down here,’ he said, making a note of the latest find.

  Perry was forced to agree.

  ‘Where’s Charles?’ he asked.

  ‘In the chamber with the skulls,’ Russell told him. ‘He’s hardly left it since it was discovered.’

  ‘I don’t know how he stands it down here for hours at a time,’ Russell continued. ‘It gets claustrophobic after a while.’

  Perry looked at his colleague.

  ‘I’ve noticed the same thing,’ he said. ‘Up until a couple of days ago enclosed spaces never bothered me, but working down here . . .’ He allowed the sentence to trail off as the lights flickered once more.

  This time the power was not restored immediately.

  ‘I’m going to have a look at that blasted generator,’ said Perry, getting to his feet. He rubbed his hands together, removing the dust and dirt. He set off back towards the shaft and started clambering up the rope ladder. As he did so he felt as if his legs were made of lead. Each step up seemed a monumental effort, as if all the strength had been sucked from him. Halfway up he actually groaned aloud and stood still, sucking in lungfuls of air so cold it seared his throat and made him feel as if he were being strangled.

  The lights finally came back on, and in the muted glow Perry saw that his hands had turned a vivid shade of blue, as if they were badly bruised all over.

  With horror, he realized that he had little feeling left in them.

  He began to climb, his progress agonizingly slow, the cold seeping through him all the time until he feared he would simply seize up. It felt as if someone had dipped his hands in iced water and held them there. He managed to hook his numb fingers around each successive rung, but the effort was almost too much.

  The thought of that needle-sharp stake at the bottom of the pit made him even more fearful and he closed his eyes, trying to drive away the vision of Phillip Swanson’s skewered body as it had been lifted from the shaft what seemed an eternity ago.

  He was just over halfway up the ladder now.

  Some fifty feet from the bottom of the shaft.

  And the stake.

  He continued to climb, wondering now if he might be better off going back down. At least if he fell from lower down he ran less risk of badly hurting himself. But from fifty feet, he courted serious injury.

  Even death.

  Rung by rung he kept on climbing, however, sensing a little more feeling in his hands now. A sudden surge of relief swept through him and he urged himself on, confident now that he would reach the top of the shaft.

  Perhaps it was over-confidence which caused him to slip.

  He shouted in fear as one foot slipped off a rung.

  Clutching the ladder with one hand, Perry desperately shot out searching fingers and succeeded in closing them around a length of the thick rope which had been suspended by the ladder as a safety precaution.

  Above him he could see a vague circle of daylight. He guessed that he had thirty feet or less to climb.

  Summoning up his last reserves of strength, he began struggling upward again, soon finding it a little easier. Nevertheless, he moved with an almost robotic rigidity, unable to escape the enveloping chill which squeezed tightly around him like a constricting snake.

  Twenty feet to the surface.

  His breath was coming in gasps now.

  Ten feet.

  Daylight washed over him as he emerged from the shaft, perspiration running down his face despite the cold.

  Perry slowly straightened up, his entire body shaking. He leant against the generator for a moment, composing himself, thankful that no one asked him what was wrong. The others on the site were too busy with their own work to notice him. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow, looking around the site, his expression wrinkling into a frown.

  For fifty feet all around the shaft the grass and bushes were blackened and withered, as if they had been sprayed with some deadly poison.

  Twenty-Two

  C
lare Nichols pulled the covers more tightly around herself, trying to keep out the chill which seemed to have filled her bedroom. Each time she exhaled she expected to see her breath clouding in front of her, but this did not happen. Perhaps, she told herself, she was imagining it. Perhaps the room was really warm. Perhaps she was still dreaming.

  She put her hand out from beneath the bedding just long enough to feel that the air was, indeed, cold. Clare wondered about calling her mother and asking if she could have more blankets on her bed. The added warmth might at least keep the cold away.

  It wouldn’t keep the nightmares away, though.

  She lay on her back staring blankly at the ceiling, feeling tired but not daring to drop off to sleep again. If she slept, she feared, she would return to the nightmare which had woken her just minutes before. Not with a scream or a cry of terror but with a numbing coldness which seemed to seep through every fibre of her body. Her eyelids flickered closed but she blinked hard, trying to keep herself awake, frightened of what waited for her beyond the boundaries of sleep. Frightened of the creature which crouched in her subconscious and had appeared so unexpectedly for the first time this evening. She’d had nightmares before, although she wasn’t quite sure that the dream she’d experienced less than ten minutes before could be classed as a nightmare. But a nightmare was a bad dream, wasn’t it? And this had been bad.

  In her dream, Clare had been with several other children, none of whom she recognized. It had been dark and they had been as frightened as she because someone or something had been following them. Chasing them through the darkness, drawing closer all the time, until finally they had been unable to run any further and had been forced to turn and face their pursuer. The dark shape had run screaming at her, its clawed hands outstretched towards her throat. The worst thing was, she hadn’t even been able to see its face.

  But despite that, Clare had sensed something horribly familiar about it.

  She knew this creature from somewhere and it knew her. And wanted her.

  Now she lay in bed, her breath coming in short gasps, trying to keep awake so that the creature couldn’t pursue her again and perhaps finally catch her this time.