“Couple of things,” said Porter. “I put them in the bedroom. Oh, wait, here’s another circle.”

  He picked up a newspaper article and dropped it onto the table. Staring up at Kett from a faded black-and-white photograph was a teenage boy. It was the kind of photo they only ever used for an obituary, and sure enough, when he read the headline, he saw that the boy had died.

  His name had been James Watton, and he’d fallen prey to a County Lines gang six years ago. The article mentioned that he’d been stabbed to death and dismembered, possibly by a rival group, but it didn’t say any more than that.

  “You remember this one, Pete?” asked Kett, studying the little red O in the corner.

  “It’s Lincolnshire, isn’t it, sir?” Porter replied. Kett scanned the article again and saw that he was right.

  “I remember it happening,” Porter went on. “Vaguely. Those cases are hard to forget, right?”

  “They put anyone away for it?”

  “Not that I can recall, sir,” said Porter.

  Kett left the article next to the others. They made for a strange selection. Two involved the deaths of pensioners, one who’d been found weeks post-mortem, practically dissolved into his sofa. The other had been discovered by dog walkers in the middle of Foxley Woods, dead from an apparent heart attack.

  One didn’t involve a human at all. It was a report on missing cats. Six of them had vanished from a town just south of Norwich, and one had been returned with its tail missing—but otherwise in good health. There were five other articles, each detailing a murder, and each more horrific than the last.

  “What does that little circle mean?” Kett said. He was talking to himself, but it was Porter who answered.

  “You think our killer was responsible for these, sir? They could be detailing their own crimes, making a collection.”

  “Maybe,” said Kett. He leaned back in his chair, sweating through his shirt even though he wasn’t wearing his jacket. “But why would they just mix them up with all the others? And why are some labelled with a question mark? Did they forget whether they’d done them or not?”

  Porter shrugged.

  “Maybe they knew the victims of these cases, sir,” he said. “Or there was something else about the crimes that made them think of something, something that got their attention. I don’t know.”

  He coughed, hammering a fist against his chest.

  “I’m parched. You think anyone will mind if I make a cuppa in here?”

  “I’m thinking if you do, it will have to be added to the ‘worst crimes’ pile,” Kett told him. “Did you say the other stuff was in the bedroom?”

  Porter nodded, using a finger to pull the collar of his shirt away from his sweaty neck.

  Kett weaved his way carefully around the carpet of documents, entering the bedroom. There were only a handful of papers on the double bed, divided into two piles. Kett sat on the edge of the mattress, examining the smaller of the two.

  Like the others, they were mostly cut from newspapers. Here, though, the articles were interviews with various members of the clergy, celebrities and authors. Some passages, anything referencing occult themes, Kett saw, had been outlined. There was another article buried beneath them, the headline screaming ‘Witchcraft Alive and Well in Norfolk’.

  Kett read through it. It was a puff piece about various groups across the region who called themselves ‘white witches,’ and who didn’t seem to do much other than hold drunken parties around bonfires and concoct traditional medicines from herbs and flowers. Somebody had underlined a single sentence in the same red pen:

  The Sisterhood of Power is one group in Norfolk who claim that witchcraft is a way for us to reconnect with nature and, in the words of their founder, Margaret Bajome, save our souls.

  Kett flicked through the rest of the documents in the pile but didn’t find anything else of note. He turned to the second stack instead, two folders that were stuffed mostly with things that had been printed from the internet. Dozens of these were historical records for churches, most of which were in Norfolk. Others were seemingly random Right Move pages showing houses for sale.

  Kett was close to punching a scream of frustration through the wall of the caravan when he found something else near the bottom of the pile.

  It was another website, this one for the same group he’d spotted in the previous pile.

  “The Sisterhood of Power,” he said, seeing a photograph of an ivy-clad house in the middle of an orchard of stunted apple trees. The only other text on the page was a small introduction, which he read in a whisper. “Let the sisters guide you on your journey to the heart of white witchery. Trust us.”

  There was nothing else on the printed document, but when he turned the page over he saw that the killer had written something on the back in their signature red pen.

  Cunts.

  “Wow,” said Kett.

  “You found something, sir?” Porter called from the other end of the caravan.

  “Maybe,” said Kett. He rifled through the last of the documents, then stood up. “You ever come across a group called the Sisterhood of Power?”

  “Heavy metal band, sir?”

  “No, I don’t think so.” Kett poked his head into the living space. “Witches.”

  Porter frowned.

  “I thought witches weren’t real, sir?”

  “I might have been wrong,” said Kett. “Keep looking, I’m going to follow something up.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Kett hopped out of the oven of the caravan, managing half a second of relief before the full force of the sun hit him. The field was crawling now, uniformed officers looking like ants as they ferried items from the cellar into the forensic vans.

  He glanced skyward, looking for the kestrel that had been making so much noise earlier, seeing only crows. There were dozens of them spiralling overhead, a double helix of darkness.

  There was no sign of Clare, so he called Savage.

  “Kate,” he said when she answered. “Anything happening at HQ?”

  “Not enough, sir,” she said. “Still no sign of the car we suspect Aggie Clegg was being held in, hasn’t pinged off any ANPRs. They’ve gone into hiding. Did Spalding get hold of you?”

  “Not yet,” he said.

  “She’s found something interesting about Bianca Caddel, sir. The land with the caravan has a planning permission application attached to it, made four years ago. Approved but lapsed. A five-bedroom house, positioned right over that bunker. But that’s not what’s interesting.”

  “Yeah?” said Kett, moving into the shade of the caravan.

  “There’s no mention of the bunker on the application, sir. There’s no bunker or cellar in the plans at all. It’s just ground floor, first floor, loft. They must have been planning to build the house on top of the bunker, to keep it completely hidden.”

  “But it’s a Cold War bunker,” said Kett. “There must be records for them. Aren’t they listed?”

  “I don’t think so, sir. I’ve seen people convert them on TV. But listen to this: Bianca didn’t make the application by herself. There was another name attached to it. Robert Flack.”

  “Shit,” said Kett. “You found him?”

  “Spalding’s looking for him now, sir. You want me to speak to him?”

  “I’ll go,” said Kett. “Send over his details as soon as you have them. Can you do something else for me, though?”

  “Sure.”

  “It might be nothing, but we found a couple of articles about a group of witches.”

  “Witches, sir?”

  “Good witches,” he said. “You know, not the ones with pointy hats. The ones who… I don’t know what they do, Kate. The group is called the Sisterhood of Power. They’re local.”

  “I’ll have a look, sir,” she said. “You want me to speak with them?”

  “Yeah, thanks. Bianca didn’t seem to like them. They might know something we don’t.”

  “No problem, sir.”

  “And be careful, Kate,” said Kett. He looked to the skies again, to that growing cloud of crows. “Something isn’t right here.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  By the time Savage had managed to locate an address for the Sisterhood of Power, it was well into the afternoon. The day was a furnace, the IRV’s air conditioning doing nothing to fend off the heat as they drove away from HQ. She’d stripped off her jacket before she’d left and undone the top button of her shirt—stopping there, because Josh and his camera had taken quite an interest in her at that point—but she felt like she’d been sitting inside a sauna for hours. There surely couldn’t be a drop of moisture left inside her.

  The same couldn’t be said for Duke, who was producing such copious amounts of sweat that he looked like he’d been fished from the ocean. He drove the IRV more slowly than he normally did because he had to keep wiping his hand over his brow. He was lucky his uniform was black, because when he’d hugged Savage back at HQ she’d felt how damp he was. If she’d wrung him out, she could have filled a bucket.

  He caught her looking at him, flashing her a nervous smile. Then he turned the same smile to Megan, who sat alone in the back seat staring at Duke through her camera. The rest of the camera crew followed in the yellow van, a little too close to the IRV’s back bumper for Savage’s liking.

  “There’s probably something you can do in editing to make me look less… sweaty, right?” said Duke.

  “Um, I’m not sure,” said Megan. “Maybe. It’s not really my department.”

  “I don’t normally sweat this much,” he went on. “It’s just my body’s way of… preparing me for… action.”

  “Action?” said Savage.

  “Yeah. You know, the lighter you are, the faster you can run,” Duke went on. “Like ships. You jettison all the excess weight, lighten the load so you can move through the water at a quicker rate of knots.”

  “Is that right?” said Savage, nodding sagely.

  “Basic biology,” said Duke. “People who sweat a lot are natural… predators.”

  “Ew,” said Savage.

  “Not that kind of predator,” said Duke. “I mean like a crocodile, or a shark.”

  “Those famously sweaty creatures,” said Savage.

  “Yeah.”

  It was painful to watch, but Megan seemed to be lapping it up. Fortunately for everyone, they were approaching their destination, a microscopic village to the south-east of the city. Savage just about had time to notice the pub and the shop—both closed—before they’d passed through and out the other side. The road continued for another half a mile before a ramshackle house appeared over a thin hedgerow.

  “That has to be it,” said Savage. “Nothing else round here.”

  Duke slowed the IRV down, steering it through a break in the hedge and along a narrow lane towards the cottage. They bounced in the potholes, fat drips of sweat pattering in Duke’s lap.

  “I mean, they can literally make somebody’s face look different in the movies,” he said. “They can turn you into, like, a CGI pigeon if they want to. They should be able to make all this disappear.”

  He gestured to his face.

  “Right?”

  “Do you think you could actually turn him into a giant pigeon instead?” said Savage. “That’s definitely a show I would watch.”

  Duke pouted, Megan laughed. Savage pointed to the house through the windscreen.

  “Aaron, stop here.”

  He pulled the car to the side of the driveway and switched off the engine. The van trundled up behind them, kissing their back bumper. Savage got out, grateful for the shade of the trees that edged the house’s enormous front garden. There was a giant pond too, and she was half tempted to throw off her clothes and jump in.

  It would have made for good TV, if nothing else.

  Duke slammed his door, stretching his arms over his head. He let Megan out of the back. The other members of the camera crew were approaching from the van, Josh’s camera once again mounted on his shoulder. Savage wondered if it had been welded there.

  “Right,” said Kelly, who was studying the quiet, picturesque garden with a look of profound disappointment. “Can one of you explain why we’re here?”

  “We can’t say too—” Savage began, but Duke had started at the same time.

  “The evidence in this extremely dangerous case has led us to this place.” He gestured at the house behind him, glancing at the camera like a kid performing a school play. “So we need to infiltrate the property and conduct a thorough investigation.”

  He patted his Taser. Savage rolled her eyes.

  “We have no idea what’s waiting for us in there,” said Duke, his voice low and menacing. “It could be a dangerous criminal. It could be a…”

  He leaned towards Josh.

  “Killer.”

  “Hello?” called a voice from the direction of the house.

  Duke spun around, and Josh stepped forward with his camera. A woman had emerged from a gate down the side of the building, one hand lifted to her brow to shield her eyes from the sun, the other braced on top of a sturdy wooden cane. She was in her seventies, her silver hair cropped short—almost shaved—her body bent under an unseen weight. She would have struggled to hit five-foot-five even if she’d been straightened out.

  She couldn’t have looked less dangerous if she’d floated out of her garden on a rainbow-coloured cloud.

  “Some killer,” muttered Kelly.

  “Hi,” Savage called back as she walked towards the house. “Sorry to disturb you. My name’s DC Kate Savage, I’m from the Norfolk Police. Could we have a quick chat?”

  The woman squinted through the shadow of her hand.

  “You don’t look like police,” she said when Savage had reached her.

  “Oh, that lot? They’re filming something, for the telly. I can ask them to stop?”

  The woman studied the camera crew as they approached, her eyes as sharp as blades. It seemed to take all her energy to stop herself folding in two, the cane bent beneath the effort of keeping her upright. Her body trembled like there was an old engine running on fumes inside it. She tilted her head towards Savage with what looked like considerable pain.

  “For the TV?”

  “Yeah,” said Savage. “They’re making a show about… about Britain’s bravest copper.”

  “You?” said the woman. “Because I can see that in you.”

  She lowered the arm that was across her face, as quick as a snake, taking Savage’s hand in her cool fingers. For the strangest couple of seconds, Savage found that she couldn’t pull free—it was as if her body had forgotten how to operate—then she took a breath and slipped out of the woman’s grasp.

  She clutched her own hand to her chest like she’d been burned, but there was a chill spreading from her fingertips, tingling into her wrists, heading for the very centre of her.

  “What?” said Savage, and she wasn’t even sure what she was asking.

  The woman’s face crinkled into a smile, her receding gums making her yellow teeth look too big.

  “Courage,” she said, and she tapped her cane onto the flagstone path. “Your heart overflows with it.”

  “Hi,” said Duke, who had ambled over like John Wayne. “I’m PC Aaron Duke.” He aimed his name at Josh behind him before turning to the woman. “We’re police. There’s no reason to panic, we just need to have a quick talk.”

  “Ah, I see,” said the woman, throwing a knowing smile at Savage. “This must be Britain’s bravest copper. Then you’d better come through. We’ve got some fresh lemonade, we can have it in the garden.”

  She turned slowly, like a boat, before floating back through the gate. Duke followed, then the camera crew, and finally Kelly, who grumbled at Savage as she went.

  “There better be a fucking cocaine-frenzied bear with knives for hands in that garden.”

  Savage walked through the gate, closing it behind her. They made their way along the side of the house, which was bigger than it had looked from the driveway, into an orchard. Dozens of apple trees grew from the long grass, each one as gnarled as a dead man’s hand. Fruit hung heavy on the crooked branches, and more rotted on the ground, the sweet, sickly aroma making Savage’s stomach churn. Flies gorged themselves in the mush.

  There were two more women in the garden. One stood unsteadily on a wooden stepladder, a pair of secateurs in one hand as she clipped apples from a tree. She was wearing so many layers of clothing that Savage didn’t know how she hadn’t roasted to death. She turned as the chatter of the group rose and Savage saw she was the same age, more or less, as the woman who had greeted them.

  The third woman was younger by a good two decades, maybe three. She was walking out of a crumbling orangery that leaned against the back of the ivy-drenched house, dressed in the same flowing robes as the others. Her sandy hair hung in long plaits that almost reached her waist. In her hands, she carried a tray of glasses that clinked like a music box as she navigated the long grass. She set it down on a wrought iron table, and Savage counted nine glasses. She had no idea how she’d managed to get it ready so quickly.

  The first woman stopped by the table, gesturing to it with her free hand. She looked close to toppling over.

  “Drink, my new friends. It’s an old recipe. Lemongrass and lavender to cool, peppermint to help you sweat, and a dash of chilli too.”

  “Um, maybe in a minute,” said Savage. “Thank you. Can we start with your names?”

  The younger woman collected a chair from the side of the house, placing it next to the table. The older woman practically fell into it, taking an enormous breath of relief. The pain was etched into every line of her face, but that glint hadn’t once left her eyes. She reminded Savage a little of her grandmother, a defiant smile in the face of every illness and every disaster, even the death of her husband all those years ago. That word entered her head again.

  Courage.

  And the woman met her eye like she’d spoken it aloud.

  “This is Mother,” said the young woman, planting both her hands on the shoulders of the older one.

  “Mother?” said Savage.

 

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