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  Step by step, they edged their way forwards, ready to disappear back into the shadows should the need arise. Cara’s heart was in her mouth: she knew that if she were to stop for a second and think about what she was doing – the reckless situation she was putting herself in - she would very likely turn around and head for the hills. It was only the apparent confidence of her superior officer that was preventing her from doing just that; he had never let her down in the past and she couldn’t abandon him now. Despite her fear, she owed it to him to remain strong in the face of danger; especially if he was right and it transpired that Blackmoor and King were responsible for Chloe’s disappearance. She glanced across at Ben, checking for signs that he had his emotions under control, but she needn’t have worried; the expression on his face told her that he was completely focused on the job in hand. Just worry about yourself, she thought, realising that out of the three of them, she was the one who was most at risk of losing control of the situation.

  They arrived at the double doors and stood at either side of them. Jennings took the initiative, signalling for Cara and Ben to stay where they were. He cupped his hand around his right ear and put his head to the door. This time he was not greeted by silence, but the sound of voices. He closed his eyes, focusing all his efforts on trying to hear what they were saying.

  The first voice he heard was that of Benedict Blackmoor: ‘One more hour, until at last our destiny will be fulfilled and He will be with us once again. My friends, you have no idea how fortunate you are to have been chosen as witnesses to this historic event.’

  ‘Tell me, Professor Blackmoor. What can we expect when He comes? Should we be afraid?’

  Wilson? Jennings said to himself, consciously having to restrain himself from shouting out.

  ‘Do not expect anything,’ Blackmoor said. ‘For even I cannot be entirely sure as to how He will react. However, I do not believe we should fear Him. After all, it is we who will have released Him from years of imprisonment, is it not? He will almost certainly look kindly upon those who have sought to bring Him back into this world, just as he will show no mercy to those who have denied Him for so long.’

  ‘Benedict,’ spoke the heavy voice of Reuben King. ‘We should robe ourselves and prepare for the ceremony. Shall I take the witnesses to the Round Room?’

  ‘Patience, Reuben. There is plenty of time for that. It is equally as important not to be too early as it is to be too late. Why don’t you check on the girl one final time? She should be waking soon. In the meantime, the rest of us will wait here and enjoy a final glass of wine. When you return, we will proceed to the Round Room as you suggest.’

  ‘Very well.’

  Jennings reacted with lightning-quick speed, springing away from the door and signalling to Cara and Ben to follow him. As quietly as he could, he ushered them hurriedly to a nearby door and held it open for them to walk through. He managed to close it behind them in the nick of time; the sound of the double doors opening behind him coinciding with the sound of his own door as he closed it. ‘She’s here,’ he whispered, retrieving a torch from his belt and illuminating the otherwise pitch-black room. ‘I heard them talking – King is going to check on her now. I need to follow him to wherever it is he’s going.’

  ‘And the others?’ asked Cara. ‘Did you hear them?’

  ‘Yes. I’m afraid they’re all in on it.’

  ‘In on what, exactly?’ asked Ben. ‘And what’s it got to do with Chloe?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but it doesn’t sound good. It sounds like they’re planning some kind of ceremony.’

  ‘In that case, I’m coming with you,’ said Ben.

  ‘Me too, Sarge,’ said Cara. ‘I can’t let you go alone.’

  ‘You’re not going anywhere,’ he replied, looking at both of them in turn. ‘You must stay here and listen out for the others. Wherever King’s going, he’s going alone. You’ll be of more use keeping an eye on the others while I try and take him by surprise. Listen, we’ll talk later…I’ve got to go or I’ll lose him. If you get into any bother, shout as loud as you can, okay? Remember, we’re the ones with the truncheons.’

  ‘Yes, Sarge,’ replied Cara. ‘Good luck.’

  ‘Thanks. You too.’ He smiled at her. ‘I bet you didn’t think you’d be seeing this kind of action in little old Shepherd’s Cross, eh?’ Without waiting for an answer, he switched off his torch, opened the door, and headed off down the corridor in pursuit of King.

  Ben turned to Cara, who had already turned on her own torch. ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘We do as he said and stay put. We don’t do anything unless we hear those doors open.’

  ‘And if they do?’

  ‘And if they do, we’ll decide what to do then. Don’t worry, Ben, Sergeant Jennings has been around the block a few times. He knows what he’s doing.’

  ‘What do you think he meant by ‘ceremony’?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ she lied. There were still plenty of unanswered questions, but the broader picture was becoming increasingly clear - the inverted cross on Wilf Blackett’s farm, the murder of Reverend Jackson – the signs all pointed towards Blackmoor and King.

  She remembered the first time she and Jennings had visited Fellside Hall, the first time she had encountered Blackmoor. The experience hadn’t lasted long, and since then her mind had worked hard to convince her that it was nothing, but she couldn’t deny the hypnotic effect he’d had on her. That strange, even erotic way he’d made her feel. It reminded her of a time when she was eighteen, when she had dated a physics student called Jeff Hanson. One Friday night, Jeff had taken her to a show at his Student Union bar that involved some hypnotist called ‘Marvin the Mind Magician.’ Over the years, she’d forgotten all about Jeff, but the memory of that night with Marvin had stayed with her. He’d somehow managed to convince certain members of the audience that they were chickens that had lost their heads, and that the only way for the chickens to be reunited with their heads was to run around the stage squawking like…like headless chickens. At first, Cara had thought that it was all just a conspiratorial stitch-up; that the so-called audience volunteers were secretly in league with Marvin. Most likely they’d been promised a few free beers as a result of their cooperation. However, as the evening had progressed, it had become clear that it couldn’t have been a trick. Talking to a few of the headless chickens at the bar, they’d sworn blindly that they couldn’t remember a thing about what had happened to them. Furthermore, the unlucky chap who’d been made to walk around the stage with his trousers around his ankles, while at the same time singing Relax by ‘Frankie Goes to Hollywood’, had, upon seeing pictures of himself that his friends had kindly taken, proceeded to confront Marvin as he was loading his gear into his car outside, and had laid into him with a nearby traffic cone. Hardly the actions of a willing accomplice.

  So perhaps Blackmoor had hypnotised her, even if it was only for a few seconds. And if he could have had that effect on her, what was to say he couldn’t have used similar tactics on Bronwyn and the others? Knowing them as well as she did, especially Bronwyn, there was no rational explanation as to why otherwise level-headed people would drop everything and start hanging out with two strangers in a derelict Hall in the middle of the coldest weekend in years. It just didn’t make sense for them to be here, unless they’d been tricked into doing so…or hypnotised. Either way, they were now suspects in a case of kidnapping and maybe even murder, and it was Cara’s duty to treat them as such.

  She looked at Ben and smiled reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry; you’ll have Chloe back with you in no time.’ Her smile faded as she thought of her own son Luke, and how she would feel if something like this happened to him. She admired Ben, both for his patience and for somehow managing to remain calm. If it had been Luke instead of Chloe, she couldn’t be sure how she would have reacted.

  ‘I feel as useless as a condom machine in the Vatican,’ Ben said, causing Cara to giggle before slapping her hand over her mouth. Her rea
ction made him smile: only last night, they’d been enjoying each other’s company in entirely different circumstances. He sincerely hoped that they would have that opportunity again.

  If he’d still been in earshot of his friends, there was no doubt that Jennings would have laughed at Ben’s joke too – that type of 1970’s humour was right up his street – but by now he was well out of range, shuffling along behind Reuben King as quietly as his out-of-shape frame would let him. Fortunately for Jennings, he hadn’t needed to stay in silent pursuit for long; King had only walked past a couple of doors before turning right into a large, open plan area and stopping right in the middle of it. Attached at various heights to the walls around him were several warped and woodworm-riddled worktops and storage cupboards, indicating that this was probably once the main kitchen. Jennings crouched behind the turning, watching as King knelt down next to what appeared to be a trapdoor in the middle of the room and fumbled with a padlock that was fastening it tightly against the floor. I wonder what he’s keeping down there, Jennings thought, watching as King eventually managed to snap open the padlock and release it from the clasp. Setting the lock down to one side, he got back up to his feet, bent over the trapdoor and pulled it up and over, placing it down gently on the other side. He then reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved a torch, flicking the switch to release a powerful beam of light considering its mediocre size. ‘Anybody there?’ asked King, peering down into the hole in the floor. ‘Ready or not, here I come!’ Without waiting for a reply, he shone the torch down into the darkness and disappeared down some steps below.

  Jennings’s heart was beating so forcefully in his chest that he was certain that somebody would hear it if they came within six feet of him. As he moved towards the trapdoor, his thoughts drifted to the murdered body of Reverend Jackson, hunched naked over his table, the words ‘DEUS EST MORTUUS’ carved into his back. God is dead, he thought, arriving at the hole in the floor and peering into the darkness below. Well…as far as I’m concerned, if God allows anything bad to happen to that little girl, He damn well may as well be. He removed his torch from his belt, pausing briefly to compose himself, before taking the first step down to the room that he figured must be some kind of cellar or underground storeroom. He took another step, and then another, struggling to keep his concentration as the images of the Carter boys suddenly decided to flash on and off before his eyes.

  As he descended, he sensed a cold presence standing behind him; a dark, evil presence that froze the air around him and chilled him right to his core. Whatever it was, it had crept up on him as if from nowhere, and he knew without turning around that he was in danger…grave danger.

  An ice-cold shiver shot up his spine as he felt hands being placed gently but firmly upon his shoulders, slowly moving up around his neck and tightening their grip; a hard, vice-like grip that could crush his neck without even trying. Jennings blindly lashed out his arms at the figure behind him, desperate to breathe again. But it was no use. The lights were going out; he couldn’t fight back no matter how hard he tried. His vision blurred, the pain overwhelming him. He closed his eyes, partly in reaction to the agony, and partly in a frantic attempt to remember happier times. Happier times that were soon to slip away from his memory forever.

  Chapter 12

  4.00pm: For the past half hour, The Fallen Angel had been filling up with despondent villagers, returning in dribs and drabs, tired and downtrodden after hours of unsuccessful searching. Daylight was fading fast, and the initial enthusiasm that had swept through Shepherd’s Cross was fading with it. At most, there remained another thirty minutes of light; and even now, it was almost impossible to see further than a dozen or so feet away. One by one, the search parties arrived and made their way across the room to Emily, confirming where they’d been and what they had, or to be more precise, what they hadn’t found. Emily’s map was now almost completely covered in red pen…there was nowhere else left to search.

  ‘No luck, chaps?’ asked Emily, knowing fine well by looking at them what the answer would be. Bill Turner’s group had just entered the pub after scanning the area down by Bobby’s Brook, and all five of them looked utterly exhausted and browbeaten. They made their way over to her control table and slumped onto the cushioned stools that surrounded it.

  Wilf Blackett answered her first. ‘We’ve turned this bloody place upside down,’ he said, accepting a cup of tea from the tray that Tina Radcliffe had brought over for them. ‘If that lass had been here, we would have found her by now. If you ask me, there’s not a cat in hell’s chance of her being in The Cross, or any of the fields surrounding it.’

  Emily sighed. ‘I hate to admit it, but I think you’re right. Which can mean only one thing.’

  ‘She’s been taken,’ said Blackett. ‘And if young Liam’s right about the black car he saw earlier, the chances are she’s been taken to Fellside Hall. Any sign of Brian or Cara?’

  ‘No,’ replied Emily. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Well then, I guess in that case we better get our arses up there to see if they need our help. What do you reckon, lads? Are you up for -’

  ‘Emily! Emily! Are you in here?’ Every head in the pub turned to see Glen Passmore, one of the church readers, running into the pub with the urgency of a man who’d been set on fire. Emily stood up, and as soon as he saw her he came bounding over.

  ‘What is it, Glen?’ she asked. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘It’s…Reverend…Reverend Jackson,’ he stuttered, trying to catch his breath. ‘He’s been murdered!’

  You could have heard a pin drop.

  ‘Murdered? Sit down, Glen,’ Emily said, offering him her stool. ‘Take some deep breaths and calm yourself down.’

  The room remained silent as Passmore did as she asked, thanking Tina as she handed him a glass of water, lifting it to his lips and sipping it tentatively as if it might be laced with poison. He set the glass down on a beermat and began talking. ‘While my group was out searching for Chloe, we happened to pass by Bill Thompson’s house. As I hadn’t seen or heard neither hide nor hair of him since he locked himself in the church earlier this morning, I thought I’d do the neighbourly thing and pop my head in to check that he was alright. I knocked on his door, but it took him ages to answer it. No sign of Joan there, either. Anyway, it turns out he’d been fast asleep in bed, and I have to tell you, he looked awful; like a man twice his age. He invited me in and made a pot of tea. ‘I know what’s on your mind,’ he told me. ‘You’re here to find out what it is I saw this morning, aren’t you?’ I had to confess to him that I was curious – we all were – but that my main concern was for his wellbeing. I’ve known Bill a long time: too many years for me to remember; and I didn’t like seeing him this way. He was so tense and on-edge that I didn’t dare push him on what he saw.’

  ‘Glen,’ Bill Turner said. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but a few of us need to get going. Any chance you could cut to the chase?’

  ‘Oh…ermmm…alright then,’ he replied, unoffended by Turner’s request. ‘As I was saying, we sat together for a while talking about this and that, but as I’m sure you can appreciate, it was hard making small talk when there was a galumphing great elephant sitting in the corner of the room. Nevertheless, I held my tongue and waited to see if he mentioned it, and sure enough, after a while he came straight out with it; without even batting an eyelid.’

  ‘Came out with what, Glen?’ Emily asked.

  ‘That he’d found Reverend Jackson sitting stark naked at his desk, his throat cut and blood everywhere. Murdered, without a shadow of a doubt.’

  A communal gasp passed through the room, made worse by the sound of smashing crockery as Tina’s tray crashed to the floor. The people in the bar looked at one another, they looked at the floor and out of the window; but mostly they looked at Glen Passmore; waiting to hear him answer the question that had suddenly barged its way unapologetically to the front of the queue.

  ‘They don’t know who did it,’ he said
, beating them to it. ‘Not yet, anyway. But Sergeant Jennings and Dr Barratt seem fairly confident it wasn’t suicide…whoever did it apparently carved something into Reverend Jackson’s back.’

  ‘Carved what?’ Blackett asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Bill didn’t want to tell me. Either that, or he was too upset. He’s in a bad way; Joan’s with him now, but I think we need to be careful. That’s why I came here; what with everyone out looking for Chloe…I just thought it best that you know. There’s going to be a swarm of Police descending on Shepherd’s Cross just as soon as they can get through, and I think it’s only right that we all have the same information.’

  ‘That explains why Sergeant Jennings seemed so keen for me to try and clear the road to the highway,’ said Blackett. ‘Bloody hell…he must be feeling the strain, poor bloke.’

  ‘You don’t think that whoever’s killed Reverend Jackson has also killed Chloe, do you?’ asked Tina, her question directed to nobody in particular.

  Tina’s question hung in the air like a stale, unwelcome smell. Nobody answered her. The thought was too disturbing to openly contemplate. After a prolonged pause, it was Bill Turner who spoke first. ‘Okay. This is how it’s going to be. We need to get up to Fellside Hall immediately – no more messing about. Whoever’s coming needs to meet here in five minutes, and my advice is to be armed with a stick…at the very least. And we’ll need torches too. Jack and Wilf have offered to take some of us up, but if anybody has a vehicle that they are confident will be able to make it up the lake road, can I suggest that you bring it along. Emily, Tina: please could you wait here with whoever wants to stay in the village but who may not want to be alone in their house?’

  They nodded.

  ‘Good,’ Turner said. ‘Right. Five minutes everybody – quick as you can. If those murderers are up there, we’ll flush the bastards out.’