A voice in his ear tells him to kneel. The floor is bone hard. Hands force him flat. Four Followers fasten his ankles and wrists, spread-eagling him across the mottled Slaughter Stone. The Henge Master moves close, followed by five incense swingers, all members of the Inner Circle. ‘Do you believe in the power of the Sacreds and all who follow them?’
‘Yes, Master.’
‘Do you trust unquestionably and unhesitatingly in their power to protect, to sustain and to heal?’
‘Yes, Master.’
‘Do you dedicate your life to their service?’
‘Yes, Master.’
‘And do you swear upon your life and the lives of all members of your family and those you hold dear never to speak of the Craft outside of your brotherhood unless given permission to do so?’
‘Yes, Master.’
The incense burners swing their thuribles in a series of circles over his tethered limbs and torso, then step away. The Henge Master holds a long dark blade fashioned from razor-sharp stone cut from the first trilithon of the henge. ‘I draw this human blood, flesh and bone in the hope that you will accept him as one of your servants and will afford him your protection and blessings. Sacred Gods, I humbly beg you to find a space in your affections for our brother.’ He moves to the Slaughter Stone and slashes cuts from wrist to shoulder, from ankle to top of the leg, and from neck to the base of the spine.
Lee tenses. The wave of shock hits him. He fights not to scream. A blast of adrenalin overwhelms the pain. He feels a hot scratch that becomes a burn, then an ache as the mutilation progresses across his body.
The bleeding lines of flesh create a star shape beneath the eyes of those looking on. They’ve endured the same ritual, the same naked humiliation. They know the pain that he is about to endure.
The Henge Master kneels. From beneath his cloak he recovers the ceremonial hammer. He puts the stone blade to the initiate’s skull.
‘With the blood we shed for you, we add the flesh and bone that proves our loyalty and devotion.’
The Henge Master swings the heavy hammer and sees it connect with the knife’s butt. The blade slices free a piece of scalp and skull.
Now he screams.
Darkness grabs him and holds him tight.
By the time Lee Johns recovers consciousness, the Great Room is empty. He lies where he was, still tied, face down. The marble block has once more sealed the chamber. He knows his fate.
35
It’s a cloudless morning, the start of what weathermen predict will be the warmest day of the year so far. Megan smothers Sammy in factor-thirty, puts the tube in her lunch bag, drives her to nursery.
She’s keen to get to work and draw up an offender profile of the burglar at Tollard Royal. The trip there yesterday provided a rich source of psychological clues — most based on the physical evidence Rob Featherby and the Shaftesbury crime team had gathered from the scene.
The first thing she does when she reaches her desk is review the evidence list: (1) Bag of tools discovered near back wall of garden. (2) Blood found on broken glass of greenhouse. (3) Small piece of cloth found on wild rose bushes. (4) Disposable cigarette lighter recovered from ground near molehills. (5) Footprints taken from soil beds, lawn and house.
Megan takes it in reverse order. The footprints are a size-ten trainer, brand to be determined. That’s a full size larger than the average UK male, giving an indication — though no guarantee — that the owner is above the average male height of five feet nine inches. She guesses he’s around five-eleven. There’s also the indentation in the soil beds. In several places he’d been on the flat of his feet, as well as on his heels. These were deep impressions, signs of slipping or being off balance. Likely he was having difficulty because of how dark it was. Or maybe he was carrying a little too much weight to make a perfectly agile burglar. At five-eleven the average male weighs about thirteen stone. She hedges her bets and puts the intruder at around thirteen and a half. That kind of weight and height mean he’ll probably have a forty-two-inch chest and thirty-six or thirty-seven-inch waist. The size is important because he may well have thrown away the clothes or even given them to a charity shop as many offenders do.
Megan considers the disposable lighter. Highly likely it’s the one the man had. She has got to trust Gideon Chase’s vision on this point at least. No mileage in not doing so. It’s a multicoloured Christmas edition BIC. Given it’s now June, it might indicate that the guy is only an occasional smoker. Or it could be that he bought it in a multipack, these things often come in threes. That would make him more regular. She hopes his fingerprints are on it. Even if he used gloves in the house, the wheel and other parts of it could produce latents.
Third on the list is a small piece of fabric recovered from the rose climber. It’s 100 per cent black cotton but according to PC Featherby, forensics got excited because the colour is so strong. They believe it’s new or at worst has been washed only a couple of times. Megan’s more cautious. It could have been bought months ago and left in a drawer. Still, there was a good chance of tracing the owner if it had been bought new.
The blood on the greenhouse is being analysed, but already she knows from the lab that it’s Rh (D) O+, the same as almost forty per cent of the country. Tox tests may provide clues to drug addiction or undue alcohol consumption.
She takes a hungry chew of an energy bar and wonders what it’s supposed to taste of. She guesses chalk and soot. Amazingly the label purports it to be Chocolatey Bliss. She wolfs it and moves on to consider the most impressive of the physical finds. The bag of tools.
Megan has seen several burglary kits in her time. Usually they contain glass breakers, tape and lightweight blankets to help get through windows without too much noise or injury. Often there are extra sacks in which to stow stolen goods and spare surgical gloves to prevent fingerprints. Heavier mobs bring along bolt-cutters, lump hammers and steel chisels to get through safes. Some carry blow torches and even plastic explosives.
Not this guy. He brought a crowbar, screwdrivers, a lump hammer, some kind of metal spike with a handle on it, duct tape and a lethal-looking axe. It confirms her suspicions that he’s not a professional. It also tells her that he probably didn’t have long to plan for the job, he just grabbed what he had in his tool shed or garage.
She wonders what the urgency was. Why move so quickly, so recklessly? Because someone had told him to? Forced him to? The absence of other bags indicates that he didn’t go with the intention of stealing multiple items. He was after one or maybe two specific things.
She looks again at the photographs Rob Featherby gave her. The axe is the most interesting. It’s not for chopping wood, that’s for sure. It looks like an expensive piece of kitchen equipment. She can’t tell without seeing it for real but it could be a boning cleaver. Maybe the guy works in a kitchen.
She turns her thoughts to how he escaped. Greenhouse racking was found up against a back wall that led to a scrub of public land and then a B-road. The thick overgrown grass had been trampled. Mud in the road showed several sets of tyre tracks. It all means he had good local knowledge. He knew where to park out of sight and was comfortable that the road didn’t have a high volume of passing traffic.
Megan nails him down as ex-military, moderately intelligent, not university material. A mixed offender: one who showed signs of organisation and planning but also a serious lack of ability to carry them through. She summarises the profile: