Deadly Ritual Read online

  There were three bedrooms in this flat. His aunt and uncle shared one, Alfie had the smallest, which was a little box room. Alfie had been told not to go into the third room.

  The room was for his Aunt Erika’s visitors. People who came to ask favours of Mr. X. They knew Alfie’s aunt was the one to speak to if they needed help from the spirits.

  Alfie shivered as he passed the room.

  His aunt and uncle were wrong. Alfie wasn’t evil, but there was definitely evil in that room.

  Alfie put his pyjamas on and got into bed, he couldn’t be bothered to have a wash or clean his teeth. When he was at his grandma’s, she used to check on him every night. She would come into his room to make sure he’d cleaned his teeth and said his prayers. But his aunt didn’t seem to bother about things like that.

  Thinking of his grandmother made Alfie feel homesick. He wondered what she was doing in Southend-on-Sea with his little brother Mickey. He pictured them sitting round a table eating big bowls of domoda, his grandma called it her special peanut stew.

  It hadn’t really been that long since Alfie had seen them. But it seemed like forever. It was all Mickey’s fault that his grandma hadn’t let Alfie go to Southend with them. He was the one who always used to get into trouble, and Alfie used to have to help him out.

  Mickey loved to mouth off at the bigger boys. He was good at that. Then once he’d got them worked up and showing their fists, Mickey would come running to Alfie for help, and Alfie would have to stick up for his little brother.

  Of course, his grandmother didn’t listen when Alfie tried to explain. Nobody ever thought Mickey could possibly do anything wrong. With his cute dimpled cheeks and his shiny brown eyes, everyone thought he was a little angel. So Alfie always got the blame, and his grandmother said she was too old to deal with such a naughty little boy like Alfie.

  So she’d moved to Southend-on-Sea and taken her little angel, Mickey, with her and left Alfie, the naughty one, with his aunt and uncle.

  For as long as he could remember, his grandma had always said Alfie had bad blood. His mother had run away from home at sixteen. According to his grandma, Alfie’s mother drank too much and one morning, when Alfie was only four years old, she’d drunk so much rum that it killed her.

  His grandma said that was when she’d been saddled with them, and she reminded Alfie and Mickey at every opportunity, how lucky they were. If their grandma hadn’t taken them in, they would have gone into care.

  At the time, Alfie hadn’t known what ‘care’ was, but he was pretty sure he didn’t want to find out.

  Alfie turned over in bed and buried his face in his pillow. Surely if he went to his grandma now, she wouldn’t turn him away, not if he told her what had happened to Francis.

  Alfie wrapped the duvet tightly around him. Would she believe him, though?

  Would anyone believe him?

  13

  EVERYBODY HATED MONDAY MORNINGS, it went without saying, but in Rachel Dawson’s opinion, Tuesday was the worst day of the week.

  Tuesdays were her least favourite because they ran a special offer at lunchtime—two for the price of one—which meant the restaurant would be absolutely packed.

  She used to love working here when the restaurant had been run by Jon Santorini, but he’d retired last year and the new owners didn’t run the business in the same way. They were hardly ever here, so the staff took advantage.

  Rachel was the first one at the restaurant today, which wasn’t unusual. Sometimes, Victor, the daytime chef surprised her by turning up early, but more often than not he was over thirty minutes late.

  Rachel thrust the key into the lock, opened the front door and pressed her finger on the large, red button just inside the entrance to open the shutters.

  She wouldn’t have minded if the pay had been a little higher, but on Tuesdays the restaurant was packed out with customers who only came for the special offers, and those kinds of customers usually didn’t leave tips, so Rachel was paid the same money as every other day in the week, despite running herself ragged on the restaurant floor.

  When she got to the restaurant’s kitchen, Rachel swore.

  “Bastards,” she muttered.

  She usually liked the early shifts. It suited her to be finished for the day by three o’clock, so she could collect her son from school, but she was getting majorly pissed off with the staff who worked the evening shifts.

  Rachel scowled at the stainless steel counters in the kitchen. They were scattered with crumbs and, what looked like fragments of chopped onions. The usually shiny steel surface had been smeared where someone had quickly run a dirty dishcloth over the work surfaces rather than clean them properly.

  She didn’t have time to clean up their mess. Soon Santorini’s early morning customers would be lining up for their coffee and croissants.

  Rachel swore again when she saw the overflowing bin.

  She chucked her handbag onto the counter and took the huge ring of keys from the hook by the refrigerator. She selected the key for the back door.

  She unlocked the door, pulling it wide, letting the early morning mist and cold air into the kitchen.

  She shivered and lifted the lid of the bin. Rachel wrinkled her nose as the smell of fish wafted up towards her. Why couldn’t they have just emptied this last night? Last night it wouldn’t have smelled so bad.

  She yanked up the black, plastic sack and swore again as it caught on the side of the bin and ripped a little.

  This was turning into a really bad day. She sighed and glanced up at the clock, wondering how long it would be before Victor turned up for his shift. He was supposed to be at the restaurant early on Tuesdays to start his prep.

  You just couldn’t get well-trained staff these days, not reliable ones anyway. Rachel heaved the black bag out of the bin, praying the bag wouldn’t split.

  She staggered to the back door with it, heaved it over the step, carried it out into the small alleyway behind the row of shops and walked towards the communal bins. The heavy sack bashed her shins with each step. She hoped it wasn’t leaking.

  The shops on this stretch shared four large metal bins with fold-over lids. Rachel dumped the bag by the foot of the bin and then jumped as she saw a movement.

  She yelped and stepped backwards. Her cheeks flushed when she realised that it was only a marmalade-coloured cat that liked to haunt the alleyway, looking for scraps.

  She breathed out a sigh of relief. She didn’t mind the cat. A couple of months ago, she had seen a huge, grey rat out here, and ever since, she’d been a bit wary.

  She moved forward again and picked up the lid of the bin, yanking it upwards. It always seemed to get stuck halfway, but another firm shove did the trick, and the bin clattered open.

  At first, Rachel didn’t register anything was wrong.

  On instinct, she leaned down to pick up the bag of restaurant waste, then she hesitated. She straightened up, raised herself up on tiptoes and peered into the large bin.

  Just a man’s shoe, she told herself. People were always dumping their rubbish in the restaurant’s bin.

  She leaned a little closer. A brown paper McDonald’s bag covered most of the shoe. Rachel reached in and pulled it out of the way.

  Attached to the shoe, covered in curly black hair, was a human leg.

  Rachel dropped the McDonald’s bag and staggered backwards. She put a hand to her mouth as she felt the bile rise in her throat.

  The bag of rubbish forgotten, she ran towards the back door of the restaurant and staggered inside the kitchen.

  Victor, the chef, had finally arrived.

  The kitchen smelled of lemons. Victor was busy squirting the counters with disinfectant.

  “It’s a bloody state,” he said. “I can’t believe they left it like this knowing we would have to clean it up. I’m going to have to have a word with them. It can’t go on like this.”

  When Rachel didn’t reply, he turned. “What’s wrong with you?”

  For a moment, Rachel couldn’t find the words. She pointed behind her to the door. “I think… I saw…”

  She couldn’t get the words out. She took a deep breath.

  “I just saw something really horrible in the bin.”

  Victor frowned. “Another rat? Well, it’s not surprising. Bins are like a magnet to them. You can’t get rid of rats. Not really they always come back. Did you know in London you’re never more than a couple of metres from a rat?” He grinned. “I heard that there are more rats in London than there are people!”

  He turned and continued spraying the counters.

  “Victor, I’m serious…”

  Victor set down the lemon-scented disinfectant. “Is this your way of getting out of emptying the bin?”

  Rachel shook her head. “No, really, I saw… I mean, I think I saw…”

  She blinked. Had she really seen it? Had it been her imagination? The way the rubbish was all piled up in there, it could have been a mistake. Maybe it wasn’t what she thought it had been.

  “Please, Victor,” she said. “Can you just come and look?”

  Victor wiped his hands on a towel and followed her outside.

  “All right. But hurry up. I’ve got loads to do this morning.”

  They walked towards the communal bins, and Rachel nodded towards the one in the middle. “It’s that one. There’s something in it.”

  She felt all the hairs on the back of her neck stand up as Victor reached for the lid.

  He didn’t seem quite so confident now. He stood as far away as he could, with just one hand on the lid, lifting the metal inch by inch.

  The lid creaked upwards. The tip of Victor’s tongue poked out between his teeth as he concentrated.

  Rachel looked away. She didn’t want to see it again.

  “Shit,” Victor said.

  And Rachel knew she’d been right. She hadn’t imagined anything.

  There was a body in the bin.

  14

  WHEN MACKINNON GOT TO the scene behind Santorini’s restaurant it was already packed with police and SOCOs.

  The pathologist was leaning over the body.

  Mackinnon pulled up the collar of his coat as he walked towards the melee. The alley behind the restaurant was a wind trap. The wind whistled past and made an eerie crooning sound.

  The crime scene photographers were already finishing up, and DI Tyler was standing close to the pathologist, frowning down at him. After putting on shoe covers, Mackinnon made his way forward.

  Mackinnon had already been given the details. But no matter how carefully the scene was described beforehand, it never prepared him for seeing something like this.

  On the floor by the pathologist’s feet, was a young black male.

  The victim was still wearing jeans, but his t-shirt had been ripped in two. On his back, the symbol X had been carved into his flesh. The red slashes ran from the man’s shoulder to hip bone on both sides.

  Mackinnon swallowed. Despite the horror of the scene, one of the first things Mackinnon noticed was the lack of blood. The victim had been killed elsewhere and dumped.

  “Not pretty is it?” DI Tyler said.

  “How long do you think he’s been there?” Mackinnon asked.

  Tyler paused and looked down at the pathologist. “We don’t know yet. He was dumped in the bin. We’ve only just got him out. Lovely job for the SOCOs.”

  Mackinnon looked up and saw SOCO officers routing through, labelling and photographing various items from the rubbish. Mackinnon didn’t envy them that. It stank enough from where he was standing.

  “We know he was obviously killed somewhere else then dumped in the bin. The pathologist believes he was killed three to four days ago. But as for how long he’s been in the bin? That’s anyone’s guess.”

  “So he was killed around the same time as Francis Eze,” Mackinnon said.

  Tyler nodded. “Yes, and the same cross carved into the poor bloke’s back, too.”

  Tyler turned to walk away. “Christ, I need a fag,” he said.

  Mackinnon followed Tyler. “How old is he, do you think?”

  Tyler shook his head. “There’s no ID on him, but I reckon we are looking at a man in his early twenties.”

  “Not another kid then.”

  Tyler shook his head. “No, the pathologist thinks not.”

  “That’s something at least.”

  Tyler pulled a face and pulled out a packet of cigarettes, as they ducked under the police tape.

  Mackinnon looked around the alley as they walked. “No cameras around here?”

  DI Tyler shook his head. “Not around here, they’ve got some at the front of the restaurant and some in that side road over there.” He nodded towards the alleyway’s exit. “We might get lucky, I suppose. I don’t like our chances, though.”

  They were far enough away now for Tyler to light his cigarette. He leaned back against a squad car and extracted a cigarette from the packet.

  “DC Webb’s looking through mispers to see if anyone’s reported the poor guy missing.”

  A shout attracted their attention. The uniformed PC standing by the tape waved to them.

  Tyler gave a tight smile. “How much do you want to bet that our eminent pathologist has found a lovely wooden disc in our victim’s mouth?”

  Not much, Mackinnon thought. He thought the odds were strongly in Tyler’s favour.

  As they approached the scene, the pathologist waved them over. He was a short man with thinning grey hair and quite a large paunch. He squatted over the body with a grunt.

  “I thought this might interest you,” the pathologist said. And with one gloved hand, he poked a finger into the victim’s mouth.

  “Another pouch?” Tyler leaned closer.

  “Yes,” the pathologist said. He pulled a small, red pouch from the victim’s mouth. It was sticky with partially dried saliva.

  After one of the crime scene photographers had captured enough images, Tyler snapped on a pair of blue latex gloves and loosened the top of the pouch.

  “Bingo,” he said, with a face like thunder as he looked down at the small wooden disc. “Smooth on one side, and a cross on the other.”

  They put the wooden disc and the pouch into a plastic evidence bag, and Tyler began to peel off his gloves. Mackinnon turned to walk away.

  “Wait a minute,” the pathologist said. “That wasn’t the only thing I wanted you to see.”

  “It wasn’t?” Tyler asked, frowning. “What else have you got for us?”

  The pathologist’s gloved finger curled back the upper lip of the victim. “See this.” He exposed the man’s teeth. They appeared to be encased in some kind of golden metal.

  “He’s wearing a brace,” Mackinnon said.

  “It’s not a brace. It’s one of those grill things,” Tyler said.

  “Yes,” the pathologist said. “They are becoming more popular.”

  Mackinnon nodded. He remembered seeing them on rap stars and pop stars. One of Sarah’s magazines had had a picture of Katy Perry, beaming with a mouth full of metal, on the front cover.

  “They’re meant for decoration, not for straightening teeth,” Tyler said. “It depends on how many people have this kind of grill, but it might help us narrow down who our victim is.”

  Tyler nodded at the pathologist. “Thanks, Doc.”

  Tyler strode away and Mackinnon followed. “I’ll get Collins onto that. He can track down some dentists in the area. You never know, we might get lucky.”

  Mackinnon nodded, and as Tyler went off to ring Collins, he turned back to look at the victim. All around him the buildings loomed over them, grey and ugly. A light rain began to fall.

  In one of the flats above Santorini’s restaurant Mackinnon could see a floppy witch’s hat on the window sill. The window had been covered with spray-on cobwebs, the kind Katy had wanted for her party.

  He never understood the obsession with the macabre some people had. He saw enough real life horror stories in this line of work.

  15

  COLLINS WAS DRIVING TO work and had to use hands-free when he got the call from DI Tyler. It had taken him two attempts to connect it. According to the instructions, his phone was supposed to seamlessly connect to the Peugeot’s stereo system via Bluetooth, but in Collins’s opinion, there was nothing seamless about it. The bloody thing hardly ever worked.

  He assured the detective inspector he’d investigate the grills and look into any dentists in the area who fitted them as soon as he got to the station.

  The daily commute into the city from Essex was killing him. But what could he do? He and Debra had two kids now, and there was no way he could afford anything in central London.

  Just five minutes after the call from DI Tyler, Evie Charlesworth from Wood Street Station rang. This time Collins didn’t bother trying the hands-free. He stopped the car in front of a betting shop and answered the call.

  He’d pulled up too close to the bus stop, so he kept an eagle eye on the rearview mirror to make sure he wasn’t in the way of any approaching buses.

  Evie had already done most of the legwork for him and gave him the address of a dentist.

  “Evie, you’re an angel,” Collins said.

  “So I’ve been told,” Evie said dryly. “We’ve found a logo carved into the back of the grill. It’s small, but it’s possible to see the letters H and S. I’m guessing it stands for Hollywood Smiles. It’s one of the biggest and most well-known dentists in the area, and they make these kinds of grills. If we’re lucky, he might have the victim on record.”

  Evie recited the address, and Collins thanked her, hung up, and used Google maps to locate the dental surgery.

  He performed a U-turn and headed off to find Hollywood Smiles. It only took him ten minutes.

  Finding a space to park, however, was not so easy.

  Collins crawled around the back streets, looking for a parking space. He eventually settled for one in front of a bin, next to a kebab shop. He wasn’t sure if it was a legitimate parking space, but it would have to do. Hopefully this wouldn’t take long.