D. Mitchell - The King of Terrors

Rayne regarded the young man. There was something he didn’t like, behind the eyes; something he felt he had to be wary of. ‘No particular reason. We just went our different ways, trod different paths.’

‘Did you know Howard Baxter has also died?’ said Stafford.

Rayne hesitated. ‘Yes, I did hear that. Tragic. I believe he took his own life. I’m not sure of the details.’

‘Ever heard of something called A Return to Eden , Mr Rayne?’ asked Styles.

‘Can’t say I have.’

‘It was the last thing Mr Baxter was working on before he died. It seems Carl Wood and Baxter had words over its potential publication. As if it might be revealing in some way. Perhaps even dangerous?’

Rayne frowned. ‘Dangerous? I rather think that’s over-egging the pudding, Inspector Styles; history is rarely dangerous.’

Style’s eyes narrowed. ‘That depends upon what is being revealed.’

‘True, I suppose,’ said Rayne. ‘But all the same, I have never heard of A Return to Eden .’

‘It appears you are the last of the three, Mr Rayne,’ noted Stafford.

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know whether I ought to feel glad or sad,’ he replied.

Stafford reached forward, touched the book in Rayne’s hands. ‘Mr Wood sent me this. When I spoke to him on the phone he told me that Doradus was getting closer and that time was running out. What can you tell us about Doradus?’

The old man looked from Stafford to Styles. ‘Isn’t it some kind of star? I seem to remember that’s what it is. A bright one.’

‘And that’s all you know?’

He nodded.

‘We got the impression from Mr Wood that Doradus was a person,’ said Styles. ‘Think again, Mr Rayne. Did your little Lunar Club ever discuss Doradus?’

‘That’s all I know, I’m afraid, Inspector. We never discussed Doradus. We were historians, not astronomers.’

Stafford ran a finger over his lips. ‘Mr Wood appeared to be frightened, afraid for his life, you might say. He died soon afterwards, on the very day we had arranged to meet with him.’

‘He died of a heart attack, I understand,’ said Rayne quickly. Too quickly, he thought, and regretted it.

‘Are you aware of anyone that would have wished Mr Wood harm?’

‘Not in the time I knew him. As for the last ten years I cannot say, but I doubt it; he was a gentle, kind-hearted man.’

‘I find it strange,’ said Stafford, his face falling serious, ‘that Mr Wood sends me this book and points out the very chapter detailing the case your grandfather worked on. You know which chapter I mean?’

‘Indeed I do,’ said Rayne. ‘ The Body in the Barn . It haunted my grandfather his entire life. He never solved it, you see. And people never let him forget it, which added salt to the wound.’ He closed the book and handed it back to Stafford. ‘Carl was a historian, no doubt possessing many books — I too have books on murder; it is a human condition that will be forever with us, no matter how far back we go or how far forward we reach.’

‘Yet he sends me this one, out of his many books,’ said Stafford. ‘You are aware that we are investigating the case of a murdered woman in Manchester.’

‘I have seen it on the news, yes.’

‘The method used to murder and then dismember her body is exactly the same as that mentioned in the book. The limbs set beside the torso, the head on the whole, and everything covered in quick lime. On the wall was a symbol painted in black, matching precisely that detailed in this book, Mr Rayne. The Body in the Barn might well be describing the scene in the Manchester flat.’

Rayne’s brow crumpled into a frown. ‘Really? I find that most odd. Are you certain?’

Stafford ignored the comment. ‘Personally, that’s what I call one hell of a coincidence, don’t you?’

‘It is rather strange, I admit that.’

Stafford leaned forward, the book in both hands. ‘Your grandfather, did he ever discuss the case of the murdered Jimmy Tate?’

‘Alas,’ said Rayne, ‘I was only young when he died. He did speak of it, yes, but as I have already said, mainly because it troubled him to the last. Do you think you have a copycat killing on your hands? It would certainly appear so.’

Stafford answered the question with one of his own: ‘Did he leave any other details, besides that written in this book? Any notes, journals, thoughts scribbled down, for instance.’

‘Sorry, no he did not.’

Styles opened a folder and took out two photographs. He handed them over to Rayne. ‘Recognise these?’

‘I take it this is the symbol you talk of.’

‘That’s right. The one on your left came from the Manchester flat; the other from a different location.’

‘It is the same as that described by my grandfather,’ he admitted, handing them back to Styles.

‘Do you have any idea why the book was prevented from being published?’ Stafford asked. ‘Was it something to do with The Body in the Barn case?’

Rayne shook his head. ‘I don’t know, Inspector,’ he said apologetically. ‘There were a number of restrictions placed on my grandfather which hampered his investigation, the reasons which were never made clear to him. In the end, my grandfather’s shooting removed him from it altogether. It is difficult not to see a connection between the two, but perhaps that is being a little too imaginative. The stuff of fiction, eh?’ He smiled weakly. ‘Do you know my grandfather called this case his Curse, Inspector?’

‘Should I take that as a warning, Mr Rayne?’ said Stafford lightly.

‘You are a historian, Mr Rayne; have you ever come across a similar symbol from the past?’ said Styles.

The tenor of Styles’ voice implied that he had, and Charles Rayne read something deep in the young man’s searching eyes, some knowledge that he knew only they two shared. ‘As far as I am aware most historians do not know the history of everything,’ Inspector Styles.

‘Take a closer look,’ Styles insisted, whilst Stafford looked on, a little bemused. ‘Have a best guess stab at interpreting it.’

Rayne took back the photo. ‘The circle is an ancient symbol, of course, representing something never ending, eternal. Likewise, the serpent features in many cultures. This one, eating its own tail, reminds me very much of the old Viking legend, that the world was made from a slain giant’s eyebrow, sunk into the ocean and surrounded by a serpent, its thrashing causing storms at sea. In this instance, though, I would say it refers to eternity. The star in the centre — well, that could mean anything. We see similar symbols everywhere from on the top of Christmas trees to black magic pentangles. Take your pick.’ He thrust the photo back to Styles, saying politely but firmly: ‘Symbols are not my specialist area.’

‘You sure?’ They stared hard at each other.

Stafford stepped in. ‘As the gentleman says, not his specialist area. What kind of man was your grandfather, Mr Rayne? His success rate, barring the last case, was quite impressive. It’s a shame we know so little about him.’

‘He was a persistent and dedicated man, Inspector. A man wedded to the police force. He became a shadow of his former self when he was injured and had to retire prematurely. The police force never left his system.’

Stafford saw similarities between himself and the long-dead officer. He wondered if he too would ever be able to expunge the force from his body, or would it hang onto it like the effects of a powerful narcotic. There was no rehab for police officers hooked on their careers. He rose from his seat. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Rayne. We shall be in contact if we have further question.’

‘I only wish I could have been of more help. I hope it’s not been a wasted trip.’