‘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.
35
He’d never really seen eye to eye with Superintendent Maloney, but Stafford guessed you’d never escape that no matter which profession you found yourself in. Never quite agreeing with your superior. Finding them lacking in some respect. Maybe it was all about bolstering yourself at the expense of another; superficial deference in public, unashamed criticism in private. He never really took to the man. Not that you had to like your boss, but you had at least to respect them to get anywhere. Lose respect you’ve lost the plot and never pick it back up. That there was no love lost between them was common knowledge amongst the team, in part down to him because he’d let it be known what he thought of Maloney. Some might say that was unprofessional; he couldn’t give a toss. That’s the way it was. That’s the way he was.