Detective Chief Inspector Stafford stepped out of the car, his expression as sullen as the Derbyshire weather. He buttoned up his coat. There was a distinct chill in the air, the sky busy with an armada of angry, grey clouds urged on by a brisk, biting wind. Massive hills towered all round, like the backs of washed-up humpback whales, enclosing them in a solemn embrace. The road shone like wet leather.
‘Cold, sir?’ asked Styles. He carried a cardboard folder under his arm.
‘I must have been up north the best part of twenty years, and in all that time it’s never warmed up,’ he returned, scowling.
‘Maybe southerners are just too soft,’ said Styles.
Stafford groused something disparaging into the pulled-up lapels of his coat. He nodded towards the house, half-hidden by fir trees in need of a haircut. ‘This the one, Nobby?’
Styles sighed. ‘I wish you’d not call me that.’
‘What? Nobby?’
‘Yes, sir; Nobby.’
‘Can’t see your problem. Nobby Stiles was a hero of mine. He helped lift the World Cup for us back in ’66. Skinny, bald, gap-toothed and not very pretty, but a hero all the same.’
‘So you say. But Nobby has other connotations these days, as you are well aware. Anything but Nobby, is all I’m saying.’
‘Let me think about it,’ said Stafford lifting the gate catch and strolling down the path. He looked back over his shoulder. ‘Yeah, this is the one, Nobby!’ He saw Styles curl his lip and he smiled inwardly. Young pups should always know who the top dog is, he thought. Didn’t hurt to remind them now and again, especially someone as irritatingly ambitious and self-centred as Styles. ‘Sort of place you’d half-expect a historian to live, ain’t it? House on its last legs, garden overgrown, weather damp and dreary. Northern.’
‘You’ve make it perfectly clear; history is not your thing.’
‘Hated the fucking subject,’ he said with venom. ‘Dry old farts lecturing me about dry old dates that no one gives a toss about.’
‘Except for ’66, of course’ he said.
‘That’s not history!’ he retorted.
‘It is to me,’ Styles drove home with a wry smile. ‘Positively medieval.’ He looked back at the high hills, the clouds wrapping themselves around their summits like gauzy scarves. ‘We learn from the past,’ he continued. ‘Or at least we should do, if people’s minds are open to it and they want to learn.’
‘Bollocks!’ scoffed Stafford.
‘My point exactly.’
‘Nobody learns from history,’ he said. ‘That’s a joke. Talking of which, did you hear the one about the new origami museum?’
‘No, sir,’ he said absently.
‘It folded.’
‘Great.’
‘Or the calculator museum?’
‘If you must.’
‘It didn’t work out.’
‘Your point being, sir?’
‘My point being history is like the pencil museum.’
‘And that is?’
‘Pointless!’
Styles stopped before the door, its paint peeling or scuffed away to reveal past incarnations of colour. ‘That’s not true. The book is a case in point,’ he said, pointing at the volume of True Crimes in Stafford’s hand. ‘What point is there in being here unless we want to learn something from the past, find a connection?’ He reached for the brass doorknocker, so in need of a clean that it looked as if it had been smeared in green-brown boot polish.
‘Yeah, whatever you say,’ he said absently. ‘The curtains are all drawn,’ he noticed.
Styles rapped the knocker hard. Presently the door opened, a gloomy hallway glimpsed sketchily beyond. Whoever opened the door remained unseen behind it.
‘Hello?’ said Stafford.
‘Please come in,’ a disembodied voice invited. ‘I take it you are DCI Stafford?’
Stafford stepped over the threshold, Styles following close behind. A man stood in shadow behind the door. ‘That’s right,’ Stafford said, ‘and this is DI Styles. You are Charles Rayne?’
The man closed the door swiftly, whipped back a thick curtain to cover it entirely. ‘That’s correct. Please forgive me,’ he said warmly, reaching out and flicking on a light switch. ‘My condition,’ he explained. ‘I have to avoid all sunlight.’
Stafford did his best to hide his surprise at seeing the old man before him. His face was a mass of tumour-like growths, particularly down the left-hand side of his face. His lips looked painfully cracked and sore, his eyes rimmed red. His white hair had all but fallen out, clumps of it desperately clinging onto the yellow skin of his head. There were growths on the top of his skull too, above the ear. He held out a gloved hand for Stafford to shake.
‘Don’t be alarmed; it isn’t contagious.’
‘No, of course not,’ Stafford said, shaking his hand.
‘Over the years my exposure to sunlight has caused me to have a few skin problems, as you can see. It is more unsightly than harmful. Is that the book?’ Rayne said. ‘Can I see it?’
The officer handed it over. ‘Your grandfather was a famous man in his time. A good police officer by all accounts,’ Stafford complimented.
Charles Rayne handled the book carefully, delicately almost. ‘This is a rare thing. I knew it existed, but assumed they had all been destroyed. I have never been able to track one down.’
‘It belonged to a colleague of yours,’ said Styles. ‘Carl Wood.’
‘Carl? Oh, yes, poor Carl.’
‘You heard about his death, obviously,’ said Stafford.
‘Oh yes. Very sad. Very sad. Though we had not seen each other in perhaps ten years or so. I did not know he had a copy of this.’ Then he smiled. ‘Sorry, how rude of me, keeping you standing in the hallway like this. Please come through to the living room. Can I get you something to drink? Tea, perhaps?’
‘No tea,’ said Styles abruptly. ‘No thank you; we had something on the way here, sir.’ They followed the man down the hall and through into another room.
‘It’s a little untidy,’ said Rayne apologetically. ‘I live on my own and I dedicate my time to my work. It sort of takes over. One grows used to living in it and not seeing it.’
The curtains were fully drawn and obviously made of a very hefty material designed to keep out all the light. The artificial light was bright enough, mainly provided by an array of lamps. They lit up a room dominated by bookcases crammed full of old leather volumes, modern hardbacks and piles of well-loved paperbacks. There was a desk on which a VDU peered from behind precarious stacks of papers and cardboard files, more paper and box files stacked on the floor against the walls. If this were his living room, thought Stafford, he’d hate to see the office.
‘Reminds me of my desk,’ Stafford said, and then thought better of it. ‘I mean, I accumulate paper, tons of it, even though it’s supposed to be a paperless office.’
Rayne shrugged. ‘I did try and tidy it up a little, knowing I had visitors coming, but it might not be immediately apparent to the untrained eye.’ He swept his hand in the direction of a sofa. ‘Please, make yourself comfortable.’
The two officers sat down. ‘Styles here says you’re quite the famous historian. A number of books published and all that.’
‘More than just a number of books,’ Styles interjected. ‘I read Shining a Light on the Dark Ages — a seminal volume. Mr Rayne’s work is highly regarded. They gave you honorary degrees from both Oxford and Cambridge isn’t that right?’
‘Rayne waved it away. ‘A little difficult to attend the ceremonies, I admit, and not easy to conduct at night or in the dark. Still, I am flattered you have even heard of me. As you can see, I keep myself to myself.’
‘But technology makes the world more accessible,’ said Styles, looking at the computer.
‘In the same way it makes privacy less accessible,’ he returned. ‘You know, holding this book makes me feel closer to my dear grandfather.’ He sat down, opening the volume and fanning through the pages. ‘So this is what you came to see me about?’
‘Your relationship with Carl Wood first, Mr Rayne,’ said Stafford.
‘Like I said, we hadn’t seen each other in a long while.’
‘Mrs Wood informs us that Carl Wood, Howard Baxter and you were part of a little group called the Lunar Club.’
He smiled. ‘That’s right. A long time ago, when we were young. We wanted to change the world, as young people so often do. We met up to discuss theories, have a glass or two of spirits and smoke cigars.’
‘Is that all?’
‘What else could there be? In any event, we stopped meeting a long time ago.’
‘Any particular reason?’ said Styles, cutting across Stafford.
Rayne regarded the young man. There was something he didn’t like, behind the eyes; something he felt he had to be wary of. ‘No particular reason. We just went our different ways, trod different paths.’
‘Did you know Howard Baxter has also died?’ said Stafford.
Rayne hesitated. ‘Yes, I did hear that. Tragic. I believe he took his own life. I’m not sure of the details.’
‘Ever heard of something called A Return to Eden, Mr Rayne?’ asked Styles.
‘Can’t say I have.’
‘It was the last thing Mr Baxter was working on before he died. It seems Carl Wood and Baxter had words over its potential publication. As if it might be revealing in some way. Perhaps even dangerous?’
Rayne frowned. ‘Dangerous? I rather think that’s over-egging the pudding, Inspector Styles; history is rarely dangerous.’
Style’s eyes narrowed. ‘That depends upon what is being revealed.’
‘True, I suppose,’ said Rayne. ‘But all the same, I have never heard of A Return to Eden.’
‘It appears you are the last of the three, Mr Rayne,’ noted Stafford.
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know whether I ought to feel glad or sad,’ he replied.
Stafford reached forward, touched the book in Rayne’s hands. ‘Mr Wood sent me this. When I spoke to him on the phone he told me that Doradus was getting closer and that time was running out. What can you tell us about Doradus?’
The old man looked from Stafford to Styles. ‘Isn’t it some kind of star? I seem to remember that’s what it is. A bright one.’
‘And that’s all you know?’
He nodded.
‘We got the impression from Mr Wood that Doradus was a person,’ said Styles. ‘Think again, Mr Rayne. Did your little Lunar Club ever discuss Doradus?’
‘That’s all I know, I’m afraid, Inspector. We never discussed Doradus. We were historians, not astronomers.’
Stafford ran a finger over his lips. ‘Mr Wood appeared to be frightened, afraid for his life, you might say. He died soon afterwards, on the very day we had arranged to meet with him.’
‘He died of a heart attack, I understand,’ said Rayne quickly. Too quickly, he thought, and regretted it.
‘Are you aware of anyone that would have wished Mr Wood harm?’
‘Not in the time I knew him. As for the last ten years I cannot say, but I doubt it; he was a gentle, kind-hearted man.’
‘I find it strange,’ said Stafford, his face falling serious, ‘that Mr Wood sends me this book and points out the very chapter detailing the case your grandfather worked on. You know which chapter I mean?’
‘Indeed I do,’ said Rayne. ‘The Body in the Barn. It haunted my grandfather his entire life. He never solved it, you see. And people never let him forget it, which added salt to the wound.’ He closed the book and handed it back to Stafford. ‘Carl was a historian, no doubt possessing many books — I too have books on murder; it is a human condition that will be forever with us, no matter how far back we go or how far forward we reach.’
‘Yet he sends me this one, out of his many books,’ said Stafford. ‘You are aware that we are investigating the case of a murdered woman in Manchester.’
‘I have seen it on the news, yes.’
‘The method used to murder and then dismember her body is exactly the same as that mentioned in the book. The limbs set beside the torso, the head on the whole, and everything covered in quick lime. On the wall was a symbol painted in black, matching precisely that detailed in this book, Mr Rayne. The Body in the Barn might well be describing the scene in the Manchester flat.’
Rayne’s brow crumpled into a frown. ‘Really? I find that most odd. Are you certain?’
Stafford ignored the comment. ‘Personally, that’s what I call one hell of a coincidence, don’t you?’
‘It is rather strange, I admit that.’
Stafford leaned forward, the book in both hands. ‘Your grandfather, did he ever discuss the case of the murdered Jimmy Tate?’
‘Alas,’ said Rayne, ‘I was only young when he died. He did speak of it, yes, but as I have already said, mainly because it troubled him to the last. Do you think you have a copycat killing on your hands? It would certainly appear so.’
Stafford answered the question with one of his own: ‘Did he leave any other details, besides that written in this book? Any notes, journals, thoughts scribbled down, for instance.’
‘Sorry, no he did not.’
Styles opened a folder and took out two photographs. He handed them over to Rayne. ‘Recognise these?’
‘I take it this is the symbol you talk of.’
‘That’s right. The one on your left came from the Manchester flat; the other from a different location.’
‘It is the same as that described by my grandfather,’ he admitted, handing them back to Styles.
‘Do you have any idea why the book was prevented from being published?’ Stafford asked. ‘Was it something to do with The Body in the Barn case?’
Rayne shook his head. ‘I don’t know, Inspector,’ he said apologetically. ‘There were a number of restrictions placed on my grandfather which hampered his investigation, the reasons which were never made clear to him. In the end, my grandfather’s shooting removed him from it altogether. It is difficult not to see a connection between the two, but perhaps that is being a little too imaginative. The stuff of fiction, eh?’ He smiled weakly. ‘Do you know my grandfather called this case his Curse, Inspector?’
‘Should I take that as a warning, Mr Rayne?’ said Stafford lightly.
‘You are a historian, Mr Rayne; have you ever come across a similar symbol from the past?’ said Styles.
The tenor of Styles’ voice implied that he had, and Charles Rayne read something deep in the young man’s searching eyes, some knowledge that he knew only they two shared. ‘As far as I am aware most historians do not know the history of everything,’ Inspector Styles.
‘Take a closer look,’ Styles insisted, whilst Stafford looked on, a little bemused. ‘Have a best guess stab at interpreting it.’
Rayne took back the photo. ‘The circle is an ancient symbol, of course, representing something never ending, eternal. Likewise, the serpent features in many cultures. This one, eating its own tail, reminds me very much of the old Viking legend, that the world was made from a slain giant’s eyebrow, sunk into the ocean and surrounded by a serpent, its thrashing causing storms at sea. In this instance, though, I would say it refers to eternity. The star in the centre — well, that could mean anything. We see similar symbols everywhere from on the top of Christmas trees to black magic pentangles. Take your pick.’ He thrust the photo back to Styles, saying politely but firmly: ‘Symbols are not my specialist area.’
‘You sure?’ They stared hard at each other.
Stafford stepped in. ‘As the gentleman says, not his specialist area. What kind of man was your grandfather, Mr Rayne? His success rate, barring the last case, was quite impressive. It’s a shame we know so little about him.’
‘He was a persistent and dedicated man, Inspector. A man wedded to the police force. He became a shadow of his former self when he was injured and had to retire prematurely. The police force never left his system.’
Stafford saw similarities between himself and the long-dead officer. He wondered if he too would ever be able to expunge the force from his body, or would it hang onto it like the effects of a powerful narcotic. There was no rehab for police officers hooked on their careers. He rose from his seat. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Rayne. We shall be in contact if we have further question.’
‘I only wish I could have been of more help. I hope it’s not been a wasted trip.’
Stafford smiled. ‘Can I use your bathroom?’ he asked. ‘A man of my age plans his journeys around toilet stops these days.’
‘Certainly. Top of the stairs, first on the left. Careful on the stairs, they are a little worn and narrow.’
Rayne waited till Stafford had left the room then looked uncomfortably at Styles. ‘Is there something bothering you, Inspector?’
The young man slipped the photographs back into the folder. ‘My interest in history is more around the Second World War,’ he admitted, wandering over to a bookshelf and scanning the spines with his head cocked to one side.
‘An interesting period.’
‘Especially fascinated by the German occupation of France. The Resistance.’ Rayne remained silent. Styles pulled a book from a shelf, slid it back in again after checking the cover. ‘People risking their lives to save others, knowing if they were captured helping Allied prisoners or downed airmen back to safety they’d be subject to the utmost cruelty, their families as well. Very brave people in the face of such overwhelming danger.’
‘Some causes bring out the very best in people,’ he said. ‘And the worst.’
‘I once read a very slim volume that you wrote on medieval symbolism,’ he said, turning to Rayne who raised an eyebrow at the remark. ‘Strange how you conveniently forgot that you’d researched and published a book on the subject, don’t you think?’
‘Age does that to people. I have written many books and forgotten many things.’
Stafford came back into the room. ‘We’ll be leaving you then, Mr Rayne,’ he said. ‘Thank you again for your time.’
Rayne saw them to the door. Styles went out to the car. Unexpectedly, Rayne caught hold of Stafford’s sleeve. ‘I may be a superstitious old man, Inspector, but I know what happened to my grandfather. Perhaps there really is a curse around the damned thing.’
He didn’t know quite how to react to the man’s words, thinking at first he meant it in half-jest, but the man’s face bore the leaden lustre of deadly seriousness. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Rayne,’ he said.
‘Be careful who you trust,’ Rayne said quietly, his eyes flashing mysteriously towards Styles. Stafford’s lids narrowed. ‘An old adage of my grandfather’s,’ he explained, and he smiled and closed the door after the police officer.
He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed it on his forehead. His split lips from forcing smiles were steadily weeping blood.