Every Last Devil: A Chilling British Crime Thriller, page 26
“You believe him?”
Kett shrugged.
“There was definitely somebody inside with us. We saw a door closing. They’re fire doors, a breeze wouldn’t have shifted it. By the time we’d got through, there was no sign of them, but he was right outside.”
More thunder, louder now, like the sky was howling out a warning.
“There were two women here when we arrived, sitting outside that tent.”
Kett nodded at the tattered pile of canvas beneath the brambles.
“That tent?” said Clare.
“It was up when we got here, sir. They were sitting on those chairs, but they were gone by the time we got out. I… I don’t know what happened.”
“You happened,” muttered Clare.
The Super put both of his hands to his face like he was playing peekaboo.
“There’s nothing you can do here, Kett,” he said, speaking through his fingers. “Go back to HQ, get anything that’s relevant on the board. Then go home.”
“Sir?” said Kett. “What about Aggie? We need to—”
“I need detectives who aren’t so tired they’ve started hallucinating,” said Clare, his hands slapping to his sides. “The night shift is here. So go back to HQ, get your shit in order, then go home.”
Thunder rolled across the sky, gathering courage. The pressure in the air was making Kett’s temples pound.
“Okay, sir,” he said after a moment. “I’m going.”
The bullpen was practically empty, just a couple of DCs that had been drafted from different departments and DS Spalding yawning her head off at Kett’s old desk. She tried to cover it with a hand as he walked over, but it was still a good ten seconds before she managed to get her mouth closed.
“You look how I feel, Alison,” he said through a yawn of his own.
“Thanks, sir,” she replied. “Not sure I could ever look that bad. Wasn’t expecting you back. They can’t be finished over at the soft play?”
“I got subbed,” he said. “Just going to sort a few things out. Anything new?”
“Actually, yeah,” she said. “The body we found this morning, the head in the church and the rest planted in the cottage garden. I think I’ve ID’d him.”
She pushed herself out of her chair, pausing as a peal of thunder made the building shake. The lights dimmed for a second, everyone looking up.
“Shit,” she said. “It’s a big one.”
“Big and weird,” said Kett. “Thunder, lightning, no rain.”
“Devil storms,” said Spalding, heading for the Incident Room. “That’s what my nan always called them.”
“You’re making that up,” said Kett.
“I’m not. Dry storms, or Devil Storms. Something about the heat burning away all of the rain. Look it up.”
Kett entered the Incident Room, holding the door for Spalding before closing it behind them. He was surprised to see Savage and Porter sitting next to each other at a desk.
“How’d you get back here so fast, Kate?” he asked.
“On my broomstick, sir,” she replied. “I snuck off, wanted to do some research. Sarge, do you want to start?”
“Not really,” said Spalding, walking to the front wall. It was almost completely covered in photographs and documents, the lines of red connecting string—almost an accidental pentagram—making Kett think of the ribbons in the ball pit.
She tapped a photo of a man in his forties, a mug shot, by the look of it. He was instantly recognisable.
“Our head,” said Kett, crashing into a chair. “How’d you find him?”
“His name’s Albert Stafford,” she said. “Forty-nine. Died three weeks ago. Cardiac arrest. Paramedics took him in. He didn’t make it.”
“Three weeks?” said Kett. “Franklin said it was days.”
“He’s been refrigerated, sir,” said Spalding. “In the King’s Lynn hospital morgue. They returned my call an hour ago, they had no idea he was missing.”
“What?” said Kett. “Somebody stole a body from the morgue? When?”
Spalding shrugged.
“They’re checking security footage, but they’re not hopeful. Some of the files were corrupted.”
“Could be somebody who works there,” said Kett.
“I’m putting together a list,” said Spalding. “So are they. Locals are knocking on doors. Stafford had no family. No one claimed the body.”
She was answered by more thunder, louder now.
“Good work,” said Kett. “So, whoever left the head in the ruins didn’t kill him. They needed a body for their ritual, or whatever they were doing. They stole Stafford’s corpse and used that.”
“Same as the body in the soft play, sir,” said Savage. “It’s real, but they got it from somewhere else. I don’t think they killed it.”
“But why?” said Kett. “If they really believe in this stuff, in demons and witchcraft, whatever, then why wouldn’t they go all the way and murder somebody? Why keep kids in cages if you’re not going to… I don’t know, do whatever demons want you to do to them?”
“I don’t know, sir,” said Savage, tapping the notepad in front of her. “But I found out some more about the demon in the book. Andramalech.”
Kett almost repeated the name, then decided not to. He didn’t want it inside his mouth.
“Been around since Pagan times,” Savage went on, reading her notes. “A god of murder.”
“God?” said Kett. “Not demon?”
“Same thing in some people’s eyes,” she said. “People used to worship him, offered him human sacrifices, especially children.”
“Not very nice,” said Porter, rocking back in his chair.
“That’s a bit of an understatement, sir,” said Savage. “He’s known as the Massacrer of Innocents and the Chancellor of Hell, amongst other things. Used to be an angel, got kicked out of heaven alongside Lucifer. Uh… everyone seems to advise against summoning him because he’s an arsehole, apparently.”
“Yeah, I get that impression,” said Kett.
“But if you do want to summon him,” Savage went on. “You need to make the mark of his seal in blood, and you need black candles, incense, and an offering.”
“A sacrifice?” asked Porter.
Savage nodded.
“If you do it correctly, and Andramalech doesn’t kill you, then he’ll grant your wishes.”
“What sort of wishes?”
“You name it, sir. Riches, fame, love, death. He seems to have power over it all. But the more you want, the more you have to give.”
“And what he wants is dead kids?” said Kett.
The whole of HQ seemed to shake beneath another barrage of thunder—as loud as artillery fire. The lights flickered again, the room falling dark for a couple of seconds this time. As much as Kett hated to admit it, he was rattled.
“Couldn’t make it up, sir,” said Savage.
“Enough to make you a believer,” added Porter, staring at the ceiling.
“That’s exactly what this is,” said Kett. “A believer. Somebody believes in all of this enough to try to summon a demon. They’re willing to steal bodies and kidnap children. I don’t know if they’ve killed anyone yet, but it feels like they’re building up to it, right?”
“I think so too, sir,” said Savage. “The bunker was full of research. The books, the sigils, the writing, the pentagram. It’s like a… like a rehearsal space. Same with the room beneath the soft play, all of those marks on the walls. It was like somebody was learning how to do it, like they were practising, making it perfect.”
She hesitated, deep in thought.
“Maybe the ball pit was a rehearsal too,” she said. “That’s why they didn’t use a real body. I mean, someone they killed. Everything I’ve read says that if you’re going to summon a demon, the ritual has to be perfect. If you make a single mistake, one wrong word, or the smallest of gaps in your protective circle, or a letter out of place, the demon will tear you to pieces.”
“Not very nice,” said Porter.
“What is it with you and understatements today, Pete?” said Kett.
“So if you believe in this stuff, sir,” Savage went on, “then you want to make it perfect. You have to. There can’t be any mistakes.”
“Okay,” said Kett. “This is good. It gives us an insight into their thought process. They’re building up to a ritual that will involve a sacrifice, possibly a child.”
“Almost certainly more than one,” said Porter.
“And that’s bad,” said Savage. “Because we rescued the two kids they had in cages.”
“That’s not bad,” said Porter, frowning.
“It’s bad for Aggie Clegg,” said Kett.
“Exactly, sir,” said Savage. “If they need a sacrifice, then she’s what they’ve got left.”
More thunder, the lights stuttering.
“Okay,” said Kett, rubbing his temples to try to ease his headache. “We’ve got at least four suspects. Bianca Caddel is the main one. It was her car we saw with Aggie in the back, and the bunker was on her property. She was in cahoots with Robert Flack, who owned the stables where the kids were found, and David Blethyn, who was keeping them in cages. Flack was in a wheelchair, although we never confirmed his injuries. But Caddel or Blethyn, or another member of their group, could have attacked the teens this morning in the woods.”
“Wearing a witch mask,” said Porter, nodding. “Like the one I found on Kevin Clegg’s body.”
“Exactly,” said Kett. “They dressed up like an old woman, like a witch. I have no idea why.”
“I do, sir,” said Savage. “Witches and devils go hand in hand. In stories, anyway. That’s why people always tried to go after witches, because they believed they were in league with Satan.”
“Some of these guys are dressed as witches, others as devils,” said Porter. “Feels like a cult.”
“Right,” said Kett. “So they attack the kids, they take Aggie. And there’s a reason they take her, and not one of the others. There has to be.”
“Because they’ve been targeting her for a while,” said Spalding, nodding. “They killed her dad, replaced him.”
“You found out any more about that, Alison?” asked Kett. “Because most people would know if their father was replaced.”
“Not if they don’t talk,” said Spalding. “Aggie lives with her grandmother. Mum died when she was a baby, she hasn’t spoken to her dad in years. Clegg’s on long-term disability, no job. Neighbours have seen him, but not up close, and nobody’s spoken to him.”
“The man in the woods knew all this,” said Porter. “He’s not just pretending to be Kevin Clegg, he’s done his research.”
“Okay,” said Kett. “So they kill Clegg, put in a lookalike so nobody reports him missing. The real Clegg is dumped in the well beneath the stables, wearing a mask just like our witch. Why?”
The only answer came from the heavens, a concussive boom of thunder.
“Why him?” he asked again. “Why Aggie? Why were they targeting her? What’s special about her?”
“Nothing, sir,” said Spalding. “She’s at college, pretty unremarkable in every way. Turns eighteen tomorrow.”
“Hang on, Sarge,” said Savage. “August first?”
“Yeah,” said Spalding.
“That’s Freya’s birthday too.”
“Shit,” said Kett, kicking himself for missing it. “You’re right. That can’t be a coincidence. What about Dmitri?”
“I’ll go check,” said Savage, getting up and leaving the room.
“What’s special about that date?” Kett asked, clicking his fingers at nobody in particular.
Porter pulled out his phone, typing.
“National Girlfriends Day,” he said. “Respect Your Parents Day.”
“Pretty sure you don’t need a demon for either of those, Pete.”
“I don’t know, sir,” he said. “You’ve met my mother, right? It’s Spider-Man Day as well, apparently. Cycle to Work Day, Homemade Pie Day… Who the hell makes these up? Lammas Day, Lugnuts Day, National Andrew Day.”
“Lugnuts?” said Spalding.
“Yeah,” said Porter. “Wait, no, it’s Lug-hun-asa-dah. I don’t know how to say it.”
“Lughnasadh,” said Spalding. “Harvest Day. It’s a pagan thing, I think. My ex was from Ireland, her family were mad on this sort of stuff. They have festivals, storytelling, music, all that jazz.”
“People bake a figure of a god and then eat it,” Porter said, reading from his phone. “To symbolise the sanctity and the sacrifice of harvest.”
“This is something,” said Kett. “We’ve got two kidnap victims who have their birthdays on Lungnadsday.”
“Lugnutshday,” said Porter.
“Lughnasadh,” said Spalding.
“And it’s three,” said Savage as she ran back into the room, out of breath. “Dmitri’s got the same birthday. I’m sorry, I should have checked.”
“We know now,” said Kett. “This is it. This is the connection. We’ve got a killer who’s preparing a sacrifice, and three kids with the same birthday. It adds up.”
He checked his watch, even though he didn’t need to.
He knew the date all too well.
“It’s the first of August tomorrow,” he said. “And unless we figure out who’s doing this, something very bad is going to happen.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Tuesday
It was after midnight by the time he parked the Volvo on the driveway, but nobody had told his house. Every window was lit up, the building a beacon of light on the dark street. As soon as he got out, he heard screams from inside.
If it wasn’t the same noise he heard from his children most days, he’d have been alarmed.
He rubbed his eyes, any hope of a quick sleep before returning to the fray dashed. He hadn’t been planning to come home at all, but Clare had returned to HQ an hour or so after they’d figured out that the kids had matching birthdays, and he’d given Kett a powerful kick in the rump to get him out of the door.
“Toss! Off! Kett! You! Giant! Cesspool! Of! Toss!” he’d roared.
Kett’s right cheek was still smarting.
The storm was still going, although it had softened a little. In the three hours or so it had taken it to cross the city, not one single drop of rain had fallen.
Kett opened the front door, embraced by a chorus of angry squeals from upstairs. He kicked off his shoes and his jacket, resting his head on the wall for a moment. Sleep ambushed him, a rush of vertigo that hit like an uppercut, almost knocking him clean off his feet.
Maybe Clare had a point. He was exhausted.
“Robbie?” came a voice from the kitchen. Billie poked her head around the door, squinting at him. She looked even worse than he did, barely able to keep her eyes open, but the smile she gave him was as bright as ever.
“I take it they’re not feeling any better?” he asked.
“What gave you that impression?” she said, and for a few seconds they stood in silence, listening to the hurricane of noise from upstairs.
“Anything I can do?”
“Backup,” she said, disappearing again. “I’m trying to give Evie some Calpol, but she won’t take it.”
Evie never took Calpol because she was always too suspicious of it. According to her, it was made of goblin snot and was poisonous.
“She’s burning up,” said Billie, appearing once again, this time with a purple plastic syringe in her hand. “39.7. She needs it.”
Kett rolled up his sleeves and washed his hands in the bathroom under the stairs. He half thought about grabbing something to defend himself, because Evie was as strong as a bull when they were trying to give her medicine, and more often than not, he got a fist or a foot to the crotch. But Billie was already halfway up the stairs.
“Evie,” she called out. “Daddy’s home.”
He followed her up, reaching the top just as Evie’s head popped out of her bedroom door. Only her eyes were visible, because she’d wrapped everything from the neck up in a towel.
“No!” she yelled, her voice muffled. “Stay away!”
She made a break for Moira’s room, slamming the door. Both the girls were screaming, and there were shouts coming from Alice’s room too.
“Shut up! I’m trying to sleep!”
“You grab her,” said Billie. “I’ll squirt it in. Be ready to hold her mouth shut.”
“Last time I did that, I almost lost a finger,” said Kett.
He braced himself outside the door while Billie turned the handle. Evie must have been leaning on the other side, because it was a struggle to get it open.
“Evie, you’ve got a fever, you have to take it,” she said.
“No!” Evie screamed back. “Never! I won’t eat your goblin snot poison, you monster!”
“You don’t want to have to go to the hospital, do you?” Billie tried, applying more pressure to the door.
“Better there than here with you,” Evie yelled back. “You’re evil! Daddy, help me, Mummy’s evil and she’s trying to kill me!”
“She’s trying to help you, Evie,” said Kett. “It’s just Calpol, it won’t hurt you.”
“She’s a monster,” roared Evie, sounding a little possessed herself. “Daddy, help me!”
Even though he knew Evie was being ridiculous, her terror still tugged on his heartstrings.
“Don’t you dare,” said Billie, looking back.
“Dare what?”
“Say she doesn’t need it,” she said. “I know that look, Robert Kett.”
He held his hands up.
“I wasn’t thinking anything!”
Billie gave the door another push, and Evie must have let go because she was suddenly falling into Moira’s bedroom. Their middle daughter exited like a streak of lightning, slipping past her mum, then trying to pass Kett. He bent down to grab her, his spine full of broken glass.
“Argh,” he said.
Evie was almost out of reach, heading for their bedroom, but he managed to grab the trailing end of the towel. He pulled her towards him like he was fishing, reeling her in as she flailed desperately.
“Don’t let go!” Billie shouted, right next to him.
Kett shrugged.
“There was definitely somebody inside with us. We saw a door closing. They’re fire doors, a breeze wouldn’t have shifted it. By the time we’d got through, there was no sign of them, but he was right outside.”
More thunder, louder now, like the sky was howling out a warning.
“There were two women here when we arrived, sitting outside that tent.”
Kett nodded at the tattered pile of canvas beneath the brambles.
“That tent?” said Clare.
“It was up when we got here, sir. They were sitting on those chairs, but they were gone by the time we got out. I… I don’t know what happened.”
“You happened,” muttered Clare.
The Super put both of his hands to his face like he was playing peekaboo.
“There’s nothing you can do here, Kett,” he said, speaking through his fingers. “Go back to HQ, get anything that’s relevant on the board. Then go home.”
“Sir?” said Kett. “What about Aggie? We need to—”
“I need detectives who aren’t so tired they’ve started hallucinating,” said Clare, his hands slapping to his sides. “The night shift is here. So go back to HQ, get your shit in order, then go home.”
Thunder rolled across the sky, gathering courage. The pressure in the air was making Kett’s temples pound.
“Okay, sir,” he said after a moment. “I’m going.”
The bullpen was practically empty, just a couple of DCs that had been drafted from different departments and DS Spalding yawning her head off at Kett’s old desk. She tried to cover it with a hand as he walked over, but it was still a good ten seconds before she managed to get her mouth closed.
“You look how I feel, Alison,” he said through a yawn of his own.
“Thanks, sir,” she replied. “Not sure I could ever look that bad. Wasn’t expecting you back. They can’t be finished over at the soft play?”
“I got subbed,” he said. “Just going to sort a few things out. Anything new?”
“Actually, yeah,” she said. “The body we found this morning, the head in the church and the rest planted in the cottage garden. I think I’ve ID’d him.”
She pushed herself out of her chair, pausing as a peal of thunder made the building shake. The lights dimmed for a second, everyone looking up.
“Shit,” she said. “It’s a big one.”
“Big and weird,” said Kett. “Thunder, lightning, no rain.”
“Devil storms,” said Spalding, heading for the Incident Room. “That’s what my nan always called them.”
“You’re making that up,” said Kett.
“I’m not. Dry storms, or Devil Storms. Something about the heat burning away all of the rain. Look it up.”
Kett entered the Incident Room, holding the door for Spalding before closing it behind them. He was surprised to see Savage and Porter sitting next to each other at a desk.
“How’d you get back here so fast, Kate?” he asked.
“On my broomstick, sir,” she replied. “I snuck off, wanted to do some research. Sarge, do you want to start?”
“Not really,” said Spalding, walking to the front wall. It was almost completely covered in photographs and documents, the lines of red connecting string—almost an accidental pentagram—making Kett think of the ribbons in the ball pit.
She tapped a photo of a man in his forties, a mug shot, by the look of it. He was instantly recognisable.
“Our head,” said Kett, crashing into a chair. “How’d you find him?”
“His name’s Albert Stafford,” she said. “Forty-nine. Died three weeks ago. Cardiac arrest. Paramedics took him in. He didn’t make it.”
“Three weeks?” said Kett. “Franklin said it was days.”
“He’s been refrigerated, sir,” said Spalding. “In the King’s Lynn hospital morgue. They returned my call an hour ago, they had no idea he was missing.”
“What?” said Kett. “Somebody stole a body from the morgue? When?”
Spalding shrugged.
“They’re checking security footage, but they’re not hopeful. Some of the files were corrupted.”
“Could be somebody who works there,” said Kett.
“I’m putting together a list,” said Spalding. “So are they. Locals are knocking on doors. Stafford had no family. No one claimed the body.”
She was answered by more thunder, louder now.
“Good work,” said Kett. “So, whoever left the head in the ruins didn’t kill him. They needed a body for their ritual, or whatever they were doing. They stole Stafford’s corpse and used that.”
“Same as the body in the soft play, sir,” said Savage. “It’s real, but they got it from somewhere else. I don’t think they killed it.”
“But why?” said Kett. “If they really believe in this stuff, in demons and witchcraft, whatever, then why wouldn’t they go all the way and murder somebody? Why keep kids in cages if you’re not going to… I don’t know, do whatever demons want you to do to them?”
“I don’t know, sir,” said Savage, tapping the notepad in front of her. “But I found out some more about the demon in the book. Andramalech.”
Kett almost repeated the name, then decided not to. He didn’t want it inside his mouth.
“Been around since Pagan times,” Savage went on, reading her notes. “A god of murder.”
“God?” said Kett. “Not demon?”
“Same thing in some people’s eyes,” she said. “People used to worship him, offered him human sacrifices, especially children.”
“Not very nice,” said Porter, rocking back in his chair.
“That’s a bit of an understatement, sir,” said Savage. “He’s known as the Massacrer of Innocents and the Chancellor of Hell, amongst other things. Used to be an angel, got kicked out of heaven alongside Lucifer. Uh… everyone seems to advise against summoning him because he’s an arsehole, apparently.”
“Yeah, I get that impression,” said Kett.
“But if you do want to summon him,” Savage went on. “You need to make the mark of his seal in blood, and you need black candles, incense, and an offering.”
“A sacrifice?” asked Porter.
Savage nodded.
“If you do it correctly, and Andramalech doesn’t kill you, then he’ll grant your wishes.”
“What sort of wishes?”
“You name it, sir. Riches, fame, love, death. He seems to have power over it all. But the more you want, the more you have to give.”
“And what he wants is dead kids?” said Kett.
The whole of HQ seemed to shake beneath another barrage of thunder—as loud as artillery fire. The lights flickered again, the room falling dark for a couple of seconds this time. As much as Kett hated to admit it, he was rattled.
“Couldn’t make it up, sir,” said Savage.
“Enough to make you a believer,” added Porter, staring at the ceiling.
“That’s exactly what this is,” said Kett. “A believer. Somebody believes in all of this enough to try to summon a demon. They’re willing to steal bodies and kidnap children. I don’t know if they’ve killed anyone yet, but it feels like they’re building up to it, right?”
“I think so too, sir,” said Savage. “The bunker was full of research. The books, the sigils, the writing, the pentagram. It’s like a… like a rehearsal space. Same with the room beneath the soft play, all of those marks on the walls. It was like somebody was learning how to do it, like they were practising, making it perfect.”
She hesitated, deep in thought.
“Maybe the ball pit was a rehearsal too,” she said. “That’s why they didn’t use a real body. I mean, someone they killed. Everything I’ve read says that if you’re going to summon a demon, the ritual has to be perfect. If you make a single mistake, one wrong word, or the smallest of gaps in your protective circle, or a letter out of place, the demon will tear you to pieces.”
“Not very nice,” said Porter.
“What is it with you and understatements today, Pete?” said Kett.
“So if you believe in this stuff, sir,” Savage went on, “then you want to make it perfect. You have to. There can’t be any mistakes.”
“Okay,” said Kett. “This is good. It gives us an insight into their thought process. They’re building up to a ritual that will involve a sacrifice, possibly a child.”
“Almost certainly more than one,” said Porter.
“And that’s bad,” said Savage. “Because we rescued the two kids they had in cages.”
“That’s not bad,” said Porter, frowning.
“It’s bad for Aggie Clegg,” said Kett.
“Exactly, sir,” said Savage. “If they need a sacrifice, then she’s what they’ve got left.”
More thunder, the lights stuttering.
“Okay,” said Kett, rubbing his temples to try to ease his headache. “We’ve got at least four suspects. Bianca Caddel is the main one. It was her car we saw with Aggie in the back, and the bunker was on her property. She was in cahoots with Robert Flack, who owned the stables where the kids were found, and David Blethyn, who was keeping them in cages. Flack was in a wheelchair, although we never confirmed his injuries. But Caddel or Blethyn, or another member of their group, could have attacked the teens this morning in the woods.”
“Wearing a witch mask,” said Porter, nodding. “Like the one I found on Kevin Clegg’s body.”
“Exactly,” said Kett. “They dressed up like an old woman, like a witch. I have no idea why.”
“I do, sir,” said Savage. “Witches and devils go hand in hand. In stories, anyway. That’s why people always tried to go after witches, because they believed they were in league with Satan.”
“Some of these guys are dressed as witches, others as devils,” said Porter. “Feels like a cult.”
“Right,” said Kett. “So they attack the kids, they take Aggie. And there’s a reason they take her, and not one of the others. There has to be.”
“Because they’ve been targeting her for a while,” said Spalding, nodding. “They killed her dad, replaced him.”
“You found out any more about that, Alison?” asked Kett. “Because most people would know if their father was replaced.”
“Not if they don’t talk,” said Spalding. “Aggie lives with her grandmother. Mum died when she was a baby, she hasn’t spoken to her dad in years. Clegg’s on long-term disability, no job. Neighbours have seen him, but not up close, and nobody’s spoken to him.”
“The man in the woods knew all this,” said Porter. “He’s not just pretending to be Kevin Clegg, he’s done his research.”
“Okay,” said Kett. “So they kill Clegg, put in a lookalike so nobody reports him missing. The real Clegg is dumped in the well beneath the stables, wearing a mask just like our witch. Why?”
The only answer came from the heavens, a concussive boom of thunder.
“Why him?” he asked again. “Why Aggie? Why were they targeting her? What’s special about her?”
“Nothing, sir,” said Spalding. “She’s at college, pretty unremarkable in every way. Turns eighteen tomorrow.”
“Hang on, Sarge,” said Savage. “August first?”
“Yeah,” said Spalding.
“That’s Freya’s birthday too.”
“Shit,” said Kett, kicking himself for missing it. “You’re right. That can’t be a coincidence. What about Dmitri?”
“I’ll go check,” said Savage, getting up and leaving the room.
“What’s special about that date?” Kett asked, clicking his fingers at nobody in particular.
Porter pulled out his phone, typing.
“National Girlfriends Day,” he said. “Respect Your Parents Day.”
“Pretty sure you don’t need a demon for either of those, Pete.”
“I don’t know, sir,” he said. “You’ve met my mother, right? It’s Spider-Man Day as well, apparently. Cycle to Work Day, Homemade Pie Day… Who the hell makes these up? Lammas Day, Lugnuts Day, National Andrew Day.”
“Lugnuts?” said Spalding.
“Yeah,” said Porter. “Wait, no, it’s Lug-hun-asa-dah. I don’t know how to say it.”
“Lughnasadh,” said Spalding. “Harvest Day. It’s a pagan thing, I think. My ex was from Ireland, her family were mad on this sort of stuff. They have festivals, storytelling, music, all that jazz.”
“People bake a figure of a god and then eat it,” Porter said, reading from his phone. “To symbolise the sanctity and the sacrifice of harvest.”
“This is something,” said Kett. “We’ve got two kidnap victims who have their birthdays on Lungnadsday.”
“Lugnutshday,” said Porter.
“Lughnasadh,” said Spalding.
“And it’s three,” said Savage as she ran back into the room, out of breath. “Dmitri’s got the same birthday. I’m sorry, I should have checked.”
“We know now,” said Kett. “This is it. This is the connection. We’ve got a killer who’s preparing a sacrifice, and three kids with the same birthday. It adds up.”
He checked his watch, even though he didn’t need to.
He knew the date all too well.
“It’s the first of August tomorrow,” he said. “And unless we figure out who’s doing this, something very bad is going to happen.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Tuesday
It was after midnight by the time he parked the Volvo on the driveway, but nobody had told his house. Every window was lit up, the building a beacon of light on the dark street. As soon as he got out, he heard screams from inside.
If it wasn’t the same noise he heard from his children most days, he’d have been alarmed.
He rubbed his eyes, any hope of a quick sleep before returning to the fray dashed. He hadn’t been planning to come home at all, but Clare had returned to HQ an hour or so after they’d figured out that the kids had matching birthdays, and he’d given Kett a powerful kick in the rump to get him out of the door.
“Toss! Off! Kett! You! Giant! Cesspool! Of! Toss!” he’d roared.
Kett’s right cheek was still smarting.
The storm was still going, although it had softened a little. In the three hours or so it had taken it to cross the city, not one single drop of rain had fallen.
Kett opened the front door, embraced by a chorus of angry squeals from upstairs. He kicked off his shoes and his jacket, resting his head on the wall for a moment. Sleep ambushed him, a rush of vertigo that hit like an uppercut, almost knocking him clean off his feet.
Maybe Clare had a point. He was exhausted.
“Robbie?” came a voice from the kitchen. Billie poked her head around the door, squinting at him. She looked even worse than he did, barely able to keep her eyes open, but the smile she gave him was as bright as ever.
“I take it they’re not feeling any better?” he asked.
“What gave you that impression?” she said, and for a few seconds they stood in silence, listening to the hurricane of noise from upstairs.
“Anything I can do?”
“Backup,” she said, disappearing again. “I’m trying to give Evie some Calpol, but she won’t take it.”
Evie never took Calpol because she was always too suspicious of it. According to her, it was made of goblin snot and was poisonous.
“She’s burning up,” said Billie, appearing once again, this time with a purple plastic syringe in her hand. “39.7. She needs it.”
Kett rolled up his sleeves and washed his hands in the bathroom under the stairs. He half thought about grabbing something to defend himself, because Evie was as strong as a bull when they were trying to give her medicine, and more often than not, he got a fist or a foot to the crotch. But Billie was already halfway up the stairs.
“Evie,” she called out. “Daddy’s home.”
He followed her up, reaching the top just as Evie’s head popped out of her bedroom door. Only her eyes were visible, because she’d wrapped everything from the neck up in a towel.
“No!” she yelled, her voice muffled. “Stay away!”
She made a break for Moira’s room, slamming the door. Both the girls were screaming, and there were shouts coming from Alice’s room too.
“Shut up! I’m trying to sleep!”
“You grab her,” said Billie. “I’ll squirt it in. Be ready to hold her mouth shut.”
“Last time I did that, I almost lost a finger,” said Kett.
He braced himself outside the door while Billie turned the handle. Evie must have been leaning on the other side, because it was a struggle to get it open.
“Evie, you’ve got a fever, you have to take it,” she said.
“No!” Evie screamed back. “Never! I won’t eat your goblin snot poison, you monster!”
“You don’t want to have to go to the hospital, do you?” Billie tried, applying more pressure to the door.
“Better there than here with you,” Evie yelled back. “You’re evil! Daddy, help me, Mummy’s evil and she’s trying to kill me!”
“She’s trying to help you, Evie,” said Kett. “It’s just Calpol, it won’t hurt you.”
“She’s a monster,” roared Evie, sounding a little possessed herself. “Daddy, help me!”
Even though he knew Evie was being ridiculous, her terror still tugged on his heartstrings.
“Don’t you dare,” said Billie, looking back.
“Dare what?”
“Say she doesn’t need it,” she said. “I know that look, Robert Kett.”
He held his hands up.
“I wasn’t thinking anything!”
Billie gave the door another push, and Evie must have let go because she was suddenly falling into Moira’s bedroom. Their middle daughter exited like a streak of lightning, slipping past her mum, then trying to pass Kett. He bent down to grab her, his spine full of broken glass.
“Argh,” he said.
Evie was almost out of reach, heading for their bedroom, but he managed to grab the trailing end of the towel. He pulled her towards him like he was fishing, reeling her in as she flailed desperately.
“Don’t let go!” Billie shouted, right next to him.
