He paced around the large room as sunlight streamed in through the large windows. The carpeting was even more luxurious than what he had at home and the furniture screamed cla.s.s and opulence. His decorating budget had been about the same as the canteen's allocation, but he knew that it was money well spent. He was the face of the police service today and if he had to spend a couple of years in a backwater like Faircliff then he certainly wasn't going to suffer.

He was an uncomplicated man of 52. His life was his career and his career was his life. He was a short compact man with a balding spot in his brown hair that seemed to grow larger by the day and he was never seen without his cap in public. He had risen quickly through the ranks, managing to bypa.s.s the unpleasant side of police work and concentrating on knowing exactly what a successful officer needed to know or, more accurately, who he needed to know. He was often perplexed by those who spent so much time complaining about "the game" when it would have been far more efficient to just learn the rules. He had been superintendant by 50 and he would make chief superintendant by 55. He had his eyes set on a commander post that would get him far away from the day to day horrid grind of criminality. He had never been one for confrontation and the thought of tackling actual criminals shook him to the core. What he desired was a post in a sw.a.n.ky London office with power and prestige.

The phone rang and he waited for his secretary, Wendie, to evaluate the call. She was a tough, no-nonsense woman who kept the mess from his desk and the flies off his ointment. He was surprised when the light on his phone started to flash. Wendie only ever put through the unavoidable calls and they were extremely rare.

"Yes?" he said, answering with a nervous twinge in his stomach.

"Donald," the voice boomed from the other end and the nervous twinge became a rumbling torrent. Commander Jeffery Barrett never called you with anything other than orders and bad news.

"Commander, how may I help you this morning?" Donald offered.

"Well, Donald...," the Commander started using his first name as always. "It would appear that you are not quite running the tight ship over there that we've come to expect from you."

Donald's head started spinning as he tried to think just what his superior could possibly mean. He knew that he was in a caretaker position while he proved his bureaucratic worth. His job was to keep the paperwork flowing on time, the in and out boxes balanced and the waves steady and still. He was excellent at his job and excelled in a managerial capacity; he was making the right connections and building the right bridges, but the commander's tone told him that there was a bug in the system. "I don't quite understand what you mean, Sir," he said, somehow managing to stop himself from spluttering.

"Am I to take it that you don't quite have a handle on just what your officers are up to in your absence?"

Donald felt like he was being painted into a corner. Something had happened overnight, something that was bad, and he didn't know about it yet. He flicked on the computer screen at his desk and started to quickly scan down through the previous night's events. He knew about the murder of course, as he had been rudely pulled from a c.o.c.ktail party at the local amateur dramatic society. He had been waiting to receive the morning briefing. His head was still a little delicate to be poring over gruesome details and he'd been putting it off.

"Actually, Sir, your call has just pulled me from the briefing," he lied, as his eyes scanned down the screen until they hit the problem, a problem that threatened to send his breakfast on a return trip. He took a deep breath. "Of course I can see that DI Meyers' enthusiasm perhaps got the better of him during rather..., heightened circ.u.mstances last night."

"The Jane Parkes problem was one that we buried a long time ago, Donald. I can a.s.sure you that n.o.body, and I mean n.o.body, wants that particular box opening again. I'm sure that I don't have to tell you, Chalmers, that consequences would be dire."

Donald flinched at the use of his surname; it was said in a scolding tone that only ever meant trouble. "Not to worry, Commander. I can a.s.sure you that everything is under control and the arrest has already been expunged from the system. I'm sure that the network just hasn't updated yet," he lied again.

"Meyers ... what sort of man is he? What sort of officer?"

Donald thought carefully, picturing the detective in his mind. "He's an excellent detective, a real credit to the force. There's never a problem with his reports; they are always meticulously prepared and on time."

"And as a man?"

"Diligent, intelligent, methodical," Donald continued. "I see him going far in the job, Sir. Under my tutelage, of course," he added falsely. In reality, Donald had little to do with the officer's actual police duties.

"Married?"

"Only to the job."

"Loyal?"

Donald paused at this question. He had been on the dance floor long enough to know a loaded question when he heard one. The commander wasn't checking on Meyers' job performance here - he wanted to know just how far the DI would go without asking questions and the truth was that he didn't know. Meyers was indeed an excellent officer and would continue to rise through the ranks on his own merits without the need for helping hands. While Meyers seemed like the very definition of a career officer, just how far he could be relied upon for his discretion was open to debate. The problem with a detective who dotted every 'i' and crossed every 't', was that when it came to sweeping things under the carpet, Meyers might want to ask why.

"You can rely on me to get the job done, Sir," Donald finally replied, trying to gain extra credit. "My house and my rules."

"Just get it done, Chalmers," the commander said before severing the connection, leaving Donald staring down at an empty phone. "Wendie!" He shouted instead of using the intercom. "Get me DI Meyers, and get him now."

Jane stared around the claustrophobic holding cell trying desperately to avoid the tidal wave of imagery from its past residents. The bed was small and there was barely room for Lana Genovese to be sitting next to her on it. The dead woman was a gargoyle, sitting motionless with pale grey skin that bordered on translucent. Her eyes were black pits and Jane could feel the woman's anger radiating in waves. The dead often had little control over their emotions and confusion would often turn to explosions of fury.

Jane looked straight ahead at the spotless walls and wondered why TV always showed them covered in graffiti. Every now and then she would catch glimpses of crimes from the mundane to the serious as men and women sat upon the same narrow bench and reflected upon their actions. There were aromas of regret and shame mingled with arrogance and violence. Someone had been pulled in for a traffic violation, and yet had sat and thought endlessly about a vegetable patch at the bottom of their garden and just what lay beneath. Part of her wanted to delve deeper but she also knew that it was pointless; there were too many images floating around in here and too much negativity floating around outside of her cell.

She cursed herself for trying to reach Karl's son. She had hoped that he was far more like his father than even he realised, but it had been useless. The man was stone and his anger towards her and his dad was going to block any attempt on her part to reach him.

She sat and tried to come up with a plan to move forwards. She knew now that she could no longer walk away from this than she could stop the sun from rising just by staring at it. It wasn't a case of choice anymore; whatever this was, she had a debt to Karl that was long overdue. The man had been a surrogate father figure to her and, whether she had helped to get him killed directly or indirectly, there was simply no way around that fact.

Someone knocked at the door gently and a metallic lock turned. The large heavy door slowly opened and Danny Meyers stood silhouetted in the frame. His face looked troubled as though he was trying desperately hard to disguise his emotions, but his anger radiated in waves. There was an older man behind him dressed in an immaculate uniform cap and all.

"Ms Parkes, my name is Superintendant Chalmers and I'm so sorry about the... misunderstanding," the older man said.

Jane watched as Meyers' body language tensed even further and she smiled at his discomfort. "Misunderstanding?"

"I'm afraid that Detective Inspector Meyers acted a little rashly," the senior man continued. "But I'm sure that you can appreciate the delicate nature of your presence last night."

"I'm not sure that I can," Jane smiled broadly. "Perhaps I should seek legal counsel about unlawful arrest, detainment, hara.s.sment."

"Don't push it," Meyers growled.

Chalmers stepped past Meyers quickly and entered the cell. "Ms Parkes, I'm sure that you can appreciate the awkwardness of this," he said kindly, but she could see through the falseness of his tone. "Your presence here cannot be made public anymore than your contribution several years ago. I understand that you might hold a little resentment over your treatment back then, but there are those today who would not look kindly on your reappearance and might seek to do something about it."

Jane caught the subtle threat and watched the superintendant warily. She had only ever wanted to speak to Meyers alone and beyond the prying eyes of the police. She knew only too well that there were those who would take great delight in burying her, either because they saw her as an embarra.s.sing fraud or even as the woman who got a highly respected officer killed. Right now she just wanted out of the cell and away from here. "Just a simple misunderstanding then, Superintendant Chalmers," she smiled. "Could have happened to anyone."

"Excellent, Ms Parkes," he beamed. "And I trust that we can count on your discretion?"

"Of course," she replied, standing. "Is there any paperwork to take care of before I leave?"

"All done," Chalmers answered.

I just bet it is, she thought. The last thing that a man like Chalmers wanted was a paper trail that she had ever even been here. "Could I trouble you for a lift back to my car? Perhaps Detective Inspector Meyers would be so kind?" She couldn't help but push.

Meyers' face looked like a bulldog chewing a wasp. His eyes darted to his boss for help.

"Of course he would," Chalmers answered quickly as Meyers' face fell.

Less than ten minutes later they were driving away from the police station with a stony silence for company. On the way out, as Meyers led her to a small staff car park at the rear of the building, she'd had the sudden feeling that she was being watched. She couldn't tell if it was from inside or out that her watcher was viewing and it was becoming an increasingly disquieting sensation.

The drive back to where she'd parked was going to take a while and she used the time to try and gain a peek into Danny Meyers. His father had been an open and honest man with no reason to try and look behind the curtain; his emotions and thoughts were always painted across his kind face. Danny, on the other hand, was proving impossible to read.

"Well now, isn't this fun?" she said, staring out of the window at the pa.s.sing lush green countryside. She had tried to engage him several times on the journey so far, but always to no avail. "Whatever you think of me, Danny, I can't just walk away, and I won't. I have debts to pay," she finished quietly.

"He was deadly serious," Danny suddenly said, startling her.

"Chalmers?"

"Even if you could do any good, even if you weren't the fraud that we all think you are, they wouldn't let you within a hundred miles of this case."

"What are they going to do? Am I going to meet with a timely accident?" She laughed, but stopped when she realised that he was serious.

"Look, I don't know what the h.e.l.l you are trying to pull here. Maybe you've convinced yourself that all your bulls.h.i.t is real or maybe you're just plain nuts. One thing that I do know is that my father believed in you and it got him killed."

"What do you believe?" she asked, suddenly painfully aware that she cared what he thought of her, for his father's sake.

"Lady, either way I think you're dangerous."

Sometimes, when she found a subject too awkward, it often helped to touch them or at least hold something that they had recently held. As Meyers drove, she looked around slyly until she spotted a well-chewed pen nestling in a little cubby hole. She delicately plucked the pen up and held it in a clenched fist and tried to reclaim the mind step.

He had used the pen earlier that morning when filling out a form. She could tell that he favoured hard copies and not computerised systems as it gave him a closer grasp of the facts. She could feel the pen writing out the report to be typed up by one of the civilian aides. She could feel his anger kept suppressed under an iron will as he wrote. There were painful facts here that opened up old wounds of the past, facts that concerned his father and the Crucifier case. Something about last night had opened that door and the two cases were now linked in a tangible way that she was unaware of, until now.

"Holy s.h.i.t!" she blurted. "The dead girl ... Lana Genovese ... she was the one that your father and I rescued. She was the Crucifier victim that got away!"

Meyers yanked the wheel hard and the car skidded to a halt at the side of the road, spewing gravel in an angry cloud. "Who the h.e.l.l told you that?" he demanded.

"I knew that I recognised her from somewhere. It's only been eight years, but she was just a child when we found her," she said, ignoring his question. "He's back, isn't he? The Crucifier's back."

"It's a copycat," Meyers said after a long pause. "And you didn't hear that from me either."

"I don't know what he is... yet," Jane said thoughtfully. "But I'm going to find out, with or without you."

Meyers pulled the car back into the traffic and they finished the rest of the journey back in silence. Eventually, he pulled the car into the picnic area where Jane had parked the night before, close to the murder scene.

"Just because my so-called superiors want you swept back under the carpet doesn't mean that I won't be watching you, Ms Parkes," Meyers said coldly. "In my experience, the person standing over the victim is normally the culprit and you have been too close to way too many bodies for me to think that you're not involved somehow. In any normal investigation you would be a prime suspect."

"Why is it that your father was able to put aside his prejudices and listen to the facts?"

"Why don't you try and convince me. Tell me something that no one could possibly know: read my fortune, stare into your crystal ball and give me next week's lottery numbers."

"I'm not a performing dog," Jane huffed. "No matter what I tell or show you, you'll find an explanation for it to suit yourself. People can only ever come to terms with the truth when they are ready for it and not before," she said, climbing out of the car and holding the door open for a brief second. "And besides, if I wanted to try and convince you I would just bring up the fact that I know you're gay, no matter how hard you've tried to hide it," she said, before slamming the door hard behind her with a satisfied grin.

The late afternoon was hot and sunny and led to the usual decadent overexposure of flesh. The man cringed as he watched from the shadows as the filthy wh.o.r.es strutted their wares, oblivious to the surroundings of a children's playground. The serpents had infiltrated the Gardens of Eden and their presence was an abomination.

He watched warily, always maintaining his distance from their ever-prying eyes. He was a righteous soldier charged with a holy mission and they would give anything to bring about his downfall. He knew that they hid in plain sight and spoke in hushed whispers beyond the ears of normal men, but he was far from normal.

The woman walked past with her young daughter and son in tow, enjoying the sunshine with a carefree skip on just another afternoon family outing The hot rays beat down on glistening skin and the man could see a small dewy bead of sweat run down between the woman's ample cleavage as she pa.s.sed by. Her temptation would have enticed a lesser man than he and he wanted to laugh in her face for her stupidity. Her skin was tanned and her figure trim and lovely, at least on the surface. But he could see behind their masks, beyond their tricks and confusions, for he had the sight.

Children ran and played amongst the equipment, sliding and swinging with ripples of excited laughter. The sun reflected off the shiny metallic surfaces and the blue sky glowed radiantly. The man, however, could see the deep and hungry shadow that engulfed the woman as she strolled among the throng with a tempting wiggle in her walk. Her features rippled and swam under the skin as her true visage struggled to be seen. Jutting horns and scaly reptilian skin stretched the thin faade, eager to be free and to feed upon the blood of the innocent. These creatures walked among us, undetected by the ma.s.ses, sowing death and pain for the future harvest. His heart had skipped a beat when first seeing the sentry; it was surely too much of a coincidence that he would find his target guarded.

This time, he had felt surer than ever that his journey was finally approaching an end. He had tracked the latest possibility here and the appearance of the demon firmed his resolve. He wasn't surprised that his work had started to attract their attention. He had sent many black souls back to h.e.l.l and he took a little pride - not too much, mind, but just a little - in his work.

He watched from the corner of his eye as the object of his search moved across the centre of the playground and the demon woman with the two children made another pa.s.s around the outskirts.

His target was currently under the illusion that she was an au pair for a wealthy local professional family, but he had seen straight through her disguise even if she hadn't. The way that she walked and moved with grace was as familiar to him as his own reflection. The blinding halo of light around her head shone brightly enough to attract the heavens, and their soldiers.

He knew that they couldn't keep her hidden from him forever; he would find her, no matter how many monsters they threw in his path. He had the patience of a saint and he would prevail.

The young girl under the woman's care threw a small plastic ball into the woodland that encased the play area. The au pair laughed with an angel's grace as she chased the ball into the undergrowth. The man saw his opportunity and slipped away unnoticed. One of his greatest a.s.sets had always been to blend into the background. He was a man who went through life without attracting attention and had to reintroduce himself on several occasions to people that he had previously met. It was further proof to him that he was special and his ability made his work possible. Those here today would not remember him; there would be no description of his appearance to the police, no tales of the odd childless man hanging around suspiciously. He checked on the demon sentry before following the au pair into the woods.

The sun struggled to penetrate the foliage cover and sunlight filtered through the thick leaves with a misty haze. He moved with stealth and lightness of touch that seemed to make him at one with his surroundings. The glow up ahead showed him his prize and he quickened his pace to catch her, all the while maintaining an iron grip on his emotions. He could not let his excitement ruin him when he was so close.

A branch snapped under his foot and cracked monstrously loud. The young woman immediately spun around to see him. Her face was a mask of light as blinding beams burst from her eyes and mouth. The man held up a hand to block the fierce rays as he stepped to her. Her arms opened wide to greet him and he ran to her embrace with an open heart that sang songs of glory, but it was not her. He raged in torturous pain at yet another deception that had fooled him once more. He had failed again and G.o.d's love and patience with him must surely be growing thin now.

The harlot tried to speak with her forked tongue but he struck her down with furious vengeance. The hammer was in his hand with slick, well-practised ease and his arm thrummed with the glory and the power. He struck her down and shattered her delicate surface features, exposing the darkness behind.

He knelt over her fallen form, swinging again and again until the steel hammer head struck soft earth under broken bone. A rainbow spray of blood and yellowish gore flew every time that he brought the hammer up and his face was soon warm and sticky. Finally, his arm grew weak as the power retreated and he knew that this monster was done.

He stretched her arms out to the sides and took two metal pegs from his pocket and hammered them through her palms into the ground. He laid the hammer aside and withdrew the small sharp knife from his back pocket. He tore apart her thin blouse, which was now soaked in crimson, and held the blade to her soft flesh. A small shudder tickled through his groin as he stared down at the small mounds beneath the white bra; he always took his pleasure as a reward for a job well done.

He carved the symbol carefully into her chest, the crucifix encased inside the pentagram. It was a calling card that told the demons just who had struck down another of their dark flock. He moved aside and pulled her legs down straight before crossing her right foot across her left. Her spread her arms out to the side and raised them slightly before lowering her head and tilting it to the right.

He stood back pleased with his work, knowing that they would be proud and promising himself that this would be the last false alarm. The next time, he would find her. The next time.

CHAPTER FIVE.

TIME TO PLAY THE GAME.

Randall Zerneck worked long into the night putting together his story. He soon began to realise just how much he had actually missed the job. There was a pace and a tempo to his writing that consumed him as the words flowed effortlessly from his hands to the page or, at least these days, the screen.

He was sat at a small desk at The Globe newspaper's offices. His old editor had retired several years ago and the new woman in place had initially taken the meeting only as a courtesy to an old hack. She was a shark in a smart business suit which probably cost more than he'd made last year. Her eyes were dark to the point of almost being black and he could hear her calculator brain ticking along as he laid out his thoughts. He had originally wanted to pursue his story alone, but his health seemed to be failing more and more each day and he was worried that his time was short. He still hadn't actually been to a doctor but he knew in his heart that it would be pointless; his batteries were fading fast and he needed help.

He had hoped that his old editor would still be in place. Mitch.e.l.l Davies had been a burly Welshman who cared little for the new way of doing things and longed for the past. Davies would have been easy to deal with and control, but this woman looked like she would be able to run rings around him if he wasn't careful.

Marion Ramsey hovered around in the background as he typed away furiously. Whatever doubts she'd had about his ability, and they were written all over her face, she'd not allowed them to interfere with the potential money making opportunity that he was dropping in her lap. They had agreed on a 60-40 split in his favour, and frankly he thought that he had been lucky to get that much. Ms Ramsey, as she insisted on being called, had offered him the resources of the paper, but much more importantly, she offered credibility. The Globe was only a small part of a national conglomerate called "Newscore" that encompa.s.sed several smaller papers dotted around the country. She had the ability to spread his story nationwide in a heartbeat and shoot him back into the stratosphere where he belonged. As an added bonus, there was also a publishing arm to Newscore that would happily publish his book, a book told from inside the investigation thanks to the sources that Ms Ramsey had promised him.

He had only given her a taste of what he had, mainly because at present he didn't have much more than taste to give. As far as he knew though, he did have the photographs to link the brutal slaying of Lana Genovese to the original Crucifier killings. The young woman had been only a child when she'd been rescued from the Crucifier's clutches 8 years ago and now someone was back to finish the job. Ms Ramsey had agreed that right now they had a large canvas with too many questions to be sure, but they certainly had enough to exploit the fears of the population. Bad news always sold more than good and when they splashed a potential new serial killer across the country, one that raked over the grave of the most infamous, all bets would be off.

He pushed his chair back from the desk and rubbed his tired eyes. The body may be willing, but his flesh was weak and this was taking a toll, one that he was not sure if he could pay. But, dammit, the story was good and his writing was as clean and crisp as it had ever been. He felt a smug satisfaction over his work. just as he felt Ms Ramsey's presence behind him.

"Not bad," she mused aloud as her eyes scanned the screen.

"My contract?" Randall asked as he turned to face her.

She took two sheets of pristine white printed paper from inside the case that she carried and placed both in his hands. He read over the contracts carefully, checking every line and on the lookout for any hidden pitfalls, even comparing the seemingly identical copies. Ms Ramsey had already signed both copies; her handwriting was curt and brutal. His hands shook as he held the paper and he felt that he had never needed a drink as much as did right now. But he also knew that he needed his wits sharp; there would time for celebration later.

Eventually, he withdrew a pen from his pocket and scrawled his signature on both copies under hers and handed one back to her.

"And the photograph for our front cover?" she demanded, rather than asked.

Randall handed over his prize and saw with satisfaction that Ms Ramsey baulked slightly at the image. At least she was human - just about.