news footage showed significant damage to their vehicles. The triumph of modern engineering, or just sheer good luck.
In terms of the human cost, this was far more serious than the fire, and yet it received only a fraction of the attention. The local papers and TV got excited for a week or more, but it attracted almost no interest from the national media. It seems the road network is the one sphere of life where we routinely accept carnage on a scale that would be unthinkable anywhere else.
But for you, my Brood, this represented a major advance. You had caused untold pain. Blood was spilled, albeit somewhat remotely.
The next challenge had to be on a more intimate scale. Personal. Visceral. You had to cut the flesh, draw the blood, expose the meat of another human being.
I told you what I wanted.
You had to find me a victim.
Fifteen
T uesday began with a strained discussion about the notes. Wendy insisted that the police had to be informed, and in the end Rob capitulated. ‘If that’s what you think is best.’
‘I have no idea what’s best. But if something else were to happen, and we haven’t mentioned it. . .’ She shuddered. ‘Think of the trouble we could be in.’
Not much Rob could say to that. Once he got to work he texted Jason Dennehy again, saying they needed to meet. Dennehy replied but didn’t ask why, which struck Rob as suspicious. The groundworker could only spare a few minutes tomorrow at midday, but Rob would have to come to Bosham, a village south of Chichester.
Then came an encounter with the tabloid press, in the form of a snide little man who’d talked his way into the office building and buttonholed Rob in the communal kitchen area. The resulting altercation was witnessed by half a dozen staff from the accountancy firm, as well as Cerys and a couple of his own guys, who at least made themselves useful by ejecting the journalist from the building. Afterwards it was Cerys who had discreetly explained what the intruder wanted, saving Rob the trouble of having to go through it again. But it meant the cat was well and truly out of the bag.
During a break for lunch, Rob did an online search for news and soon wished he hadn’t. A couple of papers were running stories of the man having been ‘ritually abused’. Claiming to have inside knowledge from an officer on the enquiry, his wounds were compared to previous victims of satanic cults, dredging up various grisly examples, mostly from America, including Gerald Cruz, Son of Sam and Charles Manson.
That evening Rob was able to confirm with Dawn Avery that it was only lurid speculation. ‘No one on DI Powell’s team would dare leak anything, I can tell you that.’
‘But he was tortured, though?’ Rob asked. ‘So could it have been some kind of ritual?’
After a significant hesitation, and an apologetic glance at Wendy, Dawn said, ‘There’s no specific evidence, but of course we can’t rule it out at this stage.’
The detective had called in at Wendy’s request, and wanted to know how she could help. At the sight of the notes, she was briefly aghast.
‘When did you get these? Have you both been handling them?’
Rob and Wendy dropped their heads like a couple of schoolkids called to the front of the class. Wendy meekly apologised, while Rob tried to convey the confusion and uncertainty that had led him to say nothing about the first note.
Dawn looked decidedly dubious. She asked Wendy to put the notes inside an envelope. ‘God only knows if we’ll get anything from these. Fortunately, I suspect they weren’t sent by anyone involved in the crime. It’s more likely to be some troublemaker who lives close by and heard what happened.’
‘We were due to go away on Saturday,’ Wendy told her, ‘but now I’m not sure if we should.’
‘It’ll be fine.’ Dawn forced a smile. ‘Tim and I can keep an eye on the house, if you like.’
She diverted them from their anxieties with some small talk about their
In terms of the human cost, this was far more serious than the fire, and yet it received only a fraction of the attention. The local papers and TV got excited for a week or more, but it attracted almost no interest from the national media. It seems the road network is the one sphere of life where we routinely accept carnage on a scale that would be unthinkable anywhere else.
But for you, my Brood, this represented a major advance. You had caused untold pain. Blood was spilled, albeit somewhat remotely.
The next challenge had to be on a more intimate scale. Personal. Visceral. You had to cut the flesh, draw the blood, expose the meat of another human being.
I told you what I wanted.
You had to find me a victim.
Fifteen
T uesday began with a strained discussion about the notes. Wendy insisted that the police had to be informed, and in the end Rob capitulated. ‘If that’s what you think is best.’
‘I have no idea what’s best. But if something else were to happen, and we haven’t mentioned it. . .’ She shuddered. ‘Think of the trouble we could be in.’
Not much Rob could say to that. Once he got to work he texted Jason Dennehy again, saying they needed to meet. Dennehy replied but didn’t ask why, which struck Rob as suspicious. The groundworker could only spare a few minutes tomorrow at midday, but Rob would have to come to Bosham, a village south of Chichester.
Then came an encounter with the tabloid press, in the form of a snide little man who’d talked his way into the office building and buttonholed Rob in the communal kitchen area. The resulting altercation was witnessed by half a dozen staff from the accountancy firm, as well as Cerys and a couple of his own guys, who at least made themselves useful by ejecting the journalist from the building. Afterwards it was Cerys who had discreetly explained what the intruder wanted, saving Rob the trouble of having to go through it again. But it meant the cat was well and truly out of the bag.
During a break for lunch, Rob did an online search for news and soon wished he hadn’t. A couple of papers were running stories of the man having been ‘ritually abused’. Claiming to have inside knowledge from an officer on the enquiry, his wounds were compared to previous victims of satanic cults, dredging up various grisly examples, mostly from America, including Gerald Cruz, Son of Sam and Charles Manson.
That evening Rob was able to confirm with Dawn Avery that it was only lurid speculation. ‘No one on DI Powell’s team would dare leak anything, I can tell you that.’
‘But he was tortured, though?’ Rob asked. ‘So could it have been some kind of ritual?’
After a significant hesitation, and an apologetic glance at Wendy, Dawn said, ‘There’s no specific evidence, but of course we can’t rule it out at this stage.’
The detective had called in at Wendy’s request, and wanted to know how she could help. At the sight of the notes, she was briefly aghast.
‘When did you get these? Have you both been handling them?’
Rob and Wendy dropped their heads like a couple of schoolkids called to the front of the class. Wendy meekly apologised, while Rob tried to convey the confusion and uncertainty that had led him to say nothing about the first note.
Dawn looked decidedly dubious. She asked Wendy to put the notes inside an envelope. ‘God only knows if we’ll get anything from these. Fortunately, I suspect they weren’t sent by anyone involved in the crime. It’s more likely to be some troublemaker who lives close by and heard what happened.’
‘We were due to go away on Saturday,’ Wendy told her, ‘but now I’m not sure if we should.’
‘It’ll be fine.’ Dawn forced a smile. ‘Tim and I can keep an eye on the house, if you like.’
She diverted them from their anxieties with some small talk about their
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