Helter Skelter Read online

  ‘What rest? I didn’t notice anything else. That was quite horrific enough,’ Robert said.

  ‘What are you getting at Inspector?’ asked Tara. ‘It was very dark in there. Was there something else?’

  Flanagan looked from one to the other, gauging their expressions.

  ‘I don’t want to add to your distress, Ms Ruane, but the fact is that Mr Healey was strapped with rope to a stone pillar so that he was half standing. His nipples were partly sliced off, a Celtic gesture signifying stripping a king of his powers. You find it in some of the Irish bog bodies preserved from that era. Also we found a dead raven at his feet. We think they propped it on his shoulder originally. We have taken pictures using flash photography, I won’t show you them now but the symbolism is Celtic and very macabre. The body is arranged in homage to the death of Cú Chulainn, the slain hero of Irish myth. You know, like the statue at the GPO in Dublin?’

  Tara nodded, but the reference was meaningless to Robert.

  ‘Whoever did this is sick in the head, which is why I am sharing the information with you. It will not be released to the press, by the way, although we cannot conceal the beheading. I shared this intelligence with Mac before you came in. We both agreed that you need to understand what we are up against here, for your personal safety.’

  Chapter 12

  Leitrim, Ireland, 1 October 2014

  Freya joined Pascal and his party at the exclusive country house hotel in County Leitrim where they were staying. When she entered the room where Pascal was, she found him lying on the bed, only partly covered by his open dressing gown, propped up by pillows. She noticed at once that he was reading the book about Gilles de Rais that she had sent him by courier and she was pleased. Her insight that Pascal craved new extremes had prompted the gift about France’s most famous murderous paedophile. She knew that an appetite like Pascal’s needed feeding and new tastes would be welcome. She also wanted him to shed some of the petit bourgeois morals that he had inherited from his father. There were still areas he shied away from. She recalled as a child of ten in Guangzhou the first time her Dutch mother had hectored and bossed her to engage sexually with her father and brother. It was awkward and hurt to start with but her mother helped her recognise quickly the pleasure she was able to give them. On other occasions her mother had joined in so it was a family activity. It was best to get these things over and done with. Great men and women needed to be amoral, just think of Darius the Great or Catherine the Great, she reflected. Not that she dare voice such thoughts to Pascal. He did not take criticism, however oblique, well.

  Pascal seemed quite unabashed by his nudity as Freya approached and they kissed in the European fashion, once on each cheek.

  She moved to the window seat, sat down and said, ‘I hope you are enjoying my present?

  ‘Yes, you clever thing. I had known a little about Gilles but I had no idea that the whole affair was so well documented.’

  ‘A good choice then?’

  ‘Yes, Freya, an excellent choice indeed, just listen!’

  As he read out loud the confessions of the principals involved, the depravity of the torture and killings he spoke of aroused him. He was well-endowed and that always drew her. Watching him, she smiled and moved forward, stepping out of her yellow silk chinoiserie dress, her hips swaying as she crossed the room. In his eyes she could read his lust for her flesh as she removed her lace underclothes. Once he had told her that she was the most sensuous female he had ever known and that her skin tone and perfectly proportioned body made him marvel. She certainly worked hard to look her best, practising yoga for two hours daily and nourishing her skin with lotions. She climbed naked onto the bed beside him and began to rub herself up and down on his raised lower legs, her upturned breasts taunting him as she moved. As he raised himself onto his knees, she let herself slip backwards, down onto the sheets. With his large hands, he turned her around effortlessly, and she marvelled at what a slight thing she was compared to his big frame. She knew he liked her even better this way, her wide hips and full buttocks inviting his attention. He entered her and she delighted in her power to still pull and ride a man so much younger than herself.

  At that moment the door opened and Kirsten walked in, catching them in flagrante. Her eyes travelled first to Pascal but then locked on Freya’s. Freya saw them widen and then fill with hate. She relished it and gloated at the younger woman. Then Pascal spoke.

  ‘Ah, Kirsten, perfect timing! Please come and join us. You can help me pleasure Freya. She needs relaxing after her journey.’

  As he spoke he insolently continued to lunge into Freya.

  Kirsten’s face flushed in rage and she turned on her heels to leave.

  ‘Kirsten. I am your master. Come over here now.’

  Kirsten’s hand was already on the door knob but she stopped. Freya watched Kirsten’s knuckles freeze as Pascal’s voice boomed behind her.

  Looking at the hesitant posture of Kirsten’s back, Freya smiled. It was clear Pascal could control his girlfriend and she had no choice but to submit. One day he would realise what an inferior partner Kirsten was and would dump her, though Freya. In the meantime they would jointly humiliate the bitch.

  Chapter 13

  Sligo, Ireland, 29 September 2014

  The following day Teresa Flanagan was back at Rosnaree. But this time it was only partly on police business. She also had a more personal motive. From day one she had known that this case would be tricky. Ancient tomb, fabulous treasure, international attention – this would attract big brass attention. And she was right. She also knew what that meant. Yesterday a Deputy Commissioner had arrived to tell her, just in case she didn’t.

  “This is big, Teresa. And messy. Your main suspects include world-renowned archaeologists, three Members of the European Parliament, several millionaires and numerous other big shots. They are like bees around the honey pot, with new ones arriving each day. And on top of that? A psychotic murder committed by maniacs. Believe me, your task, Teresa, is simple – shut this down fast. Conclude it is unrelated to the treasure. Mr Healey was part of a crack cartel or something. Roma gypsies or whatever - anything! God knows the place is crawling with them. Is that understood? There is only one story here – the tomb and the treasure. Let the world get back to it? Capisco?’

  ‘Can I quote you on that, Sir?’

  He didn’t like that. His face flushed.

  ‘Don’t fuck with me Teresa. This is big. It doesn’t get any bigger. This is no joking matter! Do as you are fucking told!’

  ‘Yes, Sir. I’m sorry. I understand,’ she dutifully trotted out.

  She should have curbed her lip. She soon found he wasn’t going to take chances with her. This morning she got a call telling her that the Emergency Response Unit from Dublin was taking over the case. She would be in a support role henceforth.

  Yes, she should have bitten her lip. But the trouble was she spent her life watching what she said. The Force was proud enough of her when it came to World Women’s Day but the rest of the time it was a male chauvinist club. You had to have a dick to be one of the boys. Declan, her husband, often advised her to walk but that just made her mad.

  ‘I make enough money for us,’ he said. He was a general practice local doctor.

  ‘No fecking way! I love my job. I was born to detect. I am bloody good at it! Women shouldn’t have to put up with this!’

  So she stayed. And today was no different. She would accept the subordination and quietly get on with her own investigations. But the Unit would take over the case this afternoon. And there was something she needed to do.

  She found Robert Grainger strolling on the front lawn. She wondered what he made of the situation. They were under threat from a Celtic-obsessed maniac and no-one had a clue who he or she might be or what their next move might look like. She didn’t envy them. And the young woman was in a right state. Mental health issues as well. She felt they didn’t deserve this. She called out.

  ‘
Mr Grainger, good morning, might I have a word?’

  Robert gestured her to fall in beside him and they continued across the grass.

  ‘Two things, Mr. Grainger. Firstly, here is your passport back, you are no longer a suspect and I expect business may call you away at any point?’

  ‘Thank you,’ replied Robert, not offering any further comment.

  He has no intention of sharing his plans with me, thought Flanagan. She couldn’t blame him. She had been quite sharp with during the interview. She ploughed on.

  ‘There is something else, strictly off the record,’ Flanagan pulled awkwardly at her cuff. ‘Is that OK with you?’

  Robert nodded and added, ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘I have had a restless night and I need to get this off my chest. There is no way I will go official on this, but I think you deserve to know. The bug planted in Mr Healey’s phone is high spec. The only people in Ireland with access to it are the Special Branch and the Intelligence Service.’

  They walked a few strides in silence. Finally Robert said, ‘So you think the perpetrators had police help in tracking Shay?’

  ‘In a nutshell, yes,’ replied Flanagan. ‘I am trying to identify who and when but I need to tread carefully. I don’t want the culprit to know I know, so it could take time. But it means that the people you are up against are powerful, well connected and have a long reach. Right now the case is very political which puts me under scrutiny. And someone else is taking over the case so my freedom of manoeuvre will be curtailed. To be blunt, Mr Grainger, I think you – and by that I mean you, Mr McCarthy and Ms Ruane - would be safer well away from here. Because I can’t guarantee that we can protect your lives if you stay.’

  She could see from the look on his face that he was taken aback. He was an intelligent man. He must realise the risk she was taking. There was nothing to stop him shopping her to her superiors. But she liked him. He was quiet, determined and decent. He had done the right thing by the girl, getting her away from that cave. And they needed to know, to have a chance.

  He turned to the D.I and stretched out his hand.

  ‘Thank you Inspector. I really do appreciate your candour. I will give what you say thought. And I won’t say anything.’

  She grasped his hand in hers, then pulled out a business card.

  ‘If I can be of any help in the future call me. After a time when things die down, it will be different. Don’t use the business number though. Use my personal mobile – it’s on the back. But what I said – don’t take too long thinking about it.’

  He looked her steadily in the eye and smiled.

  ‘Don’t worry, Inspector. I am a soldier. Rule One of survival is to recognise when to move your ass!’

  She thought to herself that Tara Ruane was lucky to have this man by her side. If, that is, he chose to remain there.

  Chapter 14

  Bay of Biscay, 1660

  The weather was more overcast than before and, despite occasional showers, Donovan spent much of the day again on deck. Somehow, in the midst of the crew as they went about their orderly tasks of running and maintaining the ship, it felt as though normality held sway. Or so he persuaded himself, as he sat and endured another shower. In the early afternoon, Tom stopped near him and, on the pretence of exchanging banter, slipped him a knife wrapped in a handkerchief. Donovan stole a furtive glance at the blade then slid it down inside the top of his right boot where its presence both reassured and unsettled him. He was rusty in the ways of the world and it was a long time since he had last had to engage in such unpredictable company without the power of the Church to back him up.

  By six o’clock Donovan knew he had to brave the Captain’s table. It was one thing to skip his afternoon appointment but he was getting hungry now and needed sustenance. God knows the food was sparse and plain enough. As he past his cabin, he noticed the door ajar and paused. He knew he had been careful to close it, although he could not lock it from the outside. Perhaps Tom had aired the bedding as was his wont, he thought, pushing it open. The sight that greeted him catapulted him into high anxiety. As the fading evening light cast a golden glow on the room he saw that his long chest was thrown open and its possessions rifled, the broken padlock lying on the floor! What’s more the largest and most important object in it was missing. The Triskell was stolen! Hardly had the thought sunk in, when he was roughly seized around the neck from behind. A foul, tobacco-drenched stench engulfed his face and told him he was in Rodriguez’s clutches.

  ‘Ah back at long last! You know, you scoundrel, I became impatient waiting for my story so decided to have a look myself! And what do I find? You are a liar and a thief and have some explaining to do!’

  Within seconds he found himself hauled into the Captain’s cabin. Terror gripped him. Who knew what this brute was capable of? Rodriguez hurled him against the wall and he slumped to the ground. Sitting at the large table was Tom, who didn’t turn his head. The boy was polishing the Triskell with a cloth and some ointment. He knew better than to look up.

  ‘So tell me, where did you find this golden treasure and where can I get more?’

  Donovan started to invent an explanation, but Rodriguez was not in a patient mood. He leapt on his passenger, throttling him with his bare hands. Donovan’s nervous system felt like it was crashing through the roof of his head as pain shot through him and his breath vanished. The Captain let go abruptly.

  ‘Now you tell me or I break every bone in your body one by one. I have all night!’

  Donovan promised to tell him all, and started again upon his explanation but Rodriguez grabbed hold of his arm and brutally yanked it behind Donovan’s back.

  ‘Now! Names and places! Who are you meeting in Spain? Where are you going? Tell me or I will send you to Hell right now!’

  Donovan could see out of the cabin port hole. He saw stars twinkling faintly in the dusk sky. He wanted to live at any cost. He crumbled.

  ‘Santiago, I am going to Santiago! But I am meeting no one!’

  It was the truth but the latter part was not the answer Rodriguez wanted to hear. Donovan screamed as the Spaniard moved again to break his arm. At that moment there was an almighty crash just by him and the man fell heavily upon him. My God, he thought, what is the man doing? Is he going to try to suffocate me? As these thoughts flashed across his brain the body slid past him and he heard another voice call out.

  ‘Get him quick! The knife!’ shouted Tom.

  Donovan realised what had happened. The ship’s boy had brought a large heavy brass coal holder crashing onto the Captain’s head as he had stooped low over Donovan. It had stunned the man, who was now raising himself to a sitting position on the floor and, in a daze, was patting his hand in his hair and then looking at the blood on it.

  ‘For God’s sake he is moving!’ hissed Tom. ‘Use the knife!’

  Donovan needed no third exhortation. As Rodriguez’s angry face loomed upwards he slipped the knife out of his boot and, recalling long-neglected skills adroitly stabbed the dagger into the Captain’s throat. Donovan thought of how he used to slaughter goats on the farm as a boy, and let his hands rediscover the expertise of mortal dispatch. Don’t think, just do it, he told himself! But this was no goat, it was a great bullock of a man, and the knife had penetrated less than two inches. Rodriguez roared in anger and surprise when thankfully the boy’s arm appeared around his neck. It was a slight arm but strong enough to yank the Captain’s head upwards, and gave Donovan the second chance he needed. His two hands tightened upon the shaft and rammed it home. He felt it cut slowly but surely deeper. Rodriguez cried out again and, in a surge of fury, Donovan felt the killer instinct take over as he wrenched the knife about frenziedly, slashing it downwards in another direction. Blood poured out of the wound and drenched Donovan as Rodriguez fought back, his great bulk heaving in outrage as he pulled Tom and Donovan with him and the three of them tumbled over in a pile.

  Donovan knew he had to finish the job speedily or he and the boy
were finished. The Spanish bull was down but not out and he would surely break their necks with the bending of one sinewy arm if he got the chance. Donovan lunged upwards pulling the blade free. Out it came - neatly, as luck would have it – and he stood tall for a moment above the Captain with the weapon raised, still grasped in his two hands. The Captain had rolled over so he was for an instant immobile and facing upwards, chest exposed, like a creature inviting slaughter. Donovan didn’t hesitate. With the full power of his body he plunged the knife through the Captain’s linen shirt deep into the monster’s heart and rammed it home, again pulling and turning it in the flesh to maximise the damage. Thank God, thought Donovan, Tom has chosen the knife well. The hilt was five inches long, with a carved wooden surface that offered a firm grip. The white linen turned, like an ink blotter, to a great spreading stain of ruby red.

  Tom was pulling the man’s long hair, wrenching it and trying to jab a finger into one of his eyes. Rodriguez, like a stricken whale facing a flight of harpoons, bucked against their onslaught and they rolled once more in a ghastly, murderous embrace. Repeatedly Donovan plunged the knife deep into the resistant carcass until the Captain suddenly and without warning stopped moving. He fell heavily on Donovan who found himself crushed under the Captain’s face, his bristled cheek against his own, the foul smell of the Captain’s sweaty body filling his nostrils, and, worst of all, the man’s warm blood pouring in a rivulet downwards into his mouth. The unmistakable metallic taste of the warm blood made Donovan gag before everything misted in front of him and he passed out.

  Chapter 15

  Sligo, Ireland, 29 September 2014

  Malachy and Robert were sitting in the library with Tara, who was ensconced at her father’s writing desk. She handed each a printed copy of the poem.

  The curious Triskell shall from base to acumination be held secure and privily covert, in oyster shell lapped by pransing coil, where the breath of Zephyros sucureth the Prince of Israel’s skyward course, held close within the recusant bosom under sovereign acceptation, and the fundament lieth yet within the regal sepulchre by Colum’s shield, until the dawn whence summon the Sacred Triune them to be ingathered and sheweth all, all to unfold