Читать книгу The Ash Murders - Edmund Glasby - Страница 5

THE ASH MURDERS

Was it an accident, murder or something else...?

Detective Inspector John Dryer took a cigarette from the packet he kept inside his raincoat pocket. Cupping the struck match against the wind, he lit it and took a deep drag, eyes narrowing as he stared at Martin Stevens, the forensic scientist, who stood before him. There was an unmistakable look of confusion on the other’s face that he had never seen before throughout their fifteen years or so of working together. He flicked the spent match away.

“As I said on the phone, John, this one’s got me beaten.” Stevens shook his head, one hand resting atop the chest-high, railed metal gate that gave access to the park. Beyond the gate was a narrow lane that ran for perhaps a hundred yards before disappearing into the shadowy tunnel under the railway bridge. Halfway along the path, close to a park bench, stood a police officer, looking down at something that lay heaped on the ground. The crime scene photographer was now packing up his equipment, getting ready to leave.

Dryer took the cigarette from his mouth and blew out a cloud of smoke. “Beaten? In what way?”

Stevens paused for a moment, framing his response. He coughed slightly. “Well, let’s just say you can forget about doing a chalk outline.” He held the gate open. “This is what I refer to as a dustpan and brush job. Come. Take a look for yourself.”

Dryer suddenly felt a chill sensation run through him. Whether it was due to the late autumnal wind that suddenly grew more intense, gusting through the elms and the oaks that stood nearby, he didn’t know, but it carried with it a strong sense of foreboding. Walking that short stretch of pathway towards where the victim lay filled him with a growing sense of dread, something he had never experienced before. Sure, there had been times when he had seen things that were truly gruesome, things which most people were mercifully unaware of, but for some reason the prospect of what he was going to see had him on edge. There was a sudden thickness in his throat. He now realised that the heap on the ground, which, from a distance, he had taken to be nothing more than a pile of windblown leaves, was smoking. Wisps of grey spiralled and billowed in the wind, carrying with it a most horrendous stench. Face contorting in disgust, he moved closer, wincing further as he made out the charred bones. The worst sight, however, was the relatively unscathed head, which lay close to the park bench. Shaking his head in disbelief, he grimaced upon seeing an overly curious squirrel scamper forward to have a better look.

The police officer noticed it and shooed it away.

“Well as you can see, aside from the head, most of the remains are, by and large, incinerated. Virtually carbonised. The undertaker won’t know whether to order a coffin or an urn.” Stevens reached into a pocket and took out a small plastic specimen bag. “A proper examination will have to wait till after we get the remains to the laboratory, but sifting through the topmost layer of ash, I found this.” He handed the bag to Dryer. “I believe it to be a surgical implant of some kind. It’s very badly melted, but it’s my guess that it’s a knee or hip joint replacement. Further examination should verify this one way or another.”

Dryer briefly studied the blackened item in the bag before handing it back. “What in God’s name happened?”

“Well, as I told you on the phone, I’ve no definite explanation. However, whatever fire caused this must have been extremely intense, for bone doesn’t burn like that. It just dries out and shatters, unless subjected to temperatures in excess of fifteen hundred degrees Fahrenheit, the kind of temperatures reached in an industrial oven or a crematorium. In addition, and this is perhaps more surprising, the fire appears to have been extremely localised, as evident from the fact that a completely unscathed newspaper was found close by, less than two feet away. I’d say we’re looking at either a freakish lightning strike or...an occurrence of spontaneous human combustion. The sole witness account that we have would seem to suggest something of this order.”

“Who is the witness, and where?” Dryer’s questions were directed to the police officer.

“A Mr. Peter Laynham, sir. He’s been admitted to St. Catherine’s Hospital,” answered the man. “Extreme shock, I believe. He was half-mad, ranting almost. Some of the things he was saying were more than a little...outlandish, shall we say.”

“Outlandish?”

“Why, yes, sir.” The officer reached into his pocket and removed a notebook. He flipped it open. “Understandably, it was hard getting much from Mr. Laynham, but apparently about seven o’clock this morning he had been out jogging, when he saw a dark-suited gentlemen sat on the bench in front of him. He had come from the direction of the tunnel over there and believed he heard the man talking rather loudly, although there was no one else visible. He said that the words were foreign, certainly not English. Then, while he was still some distance away, the man got suddenly to his feet and started to flail his arms around wildly, as though he was being harangued by a swarm of wasps or something. According to Mr. Laynham...the man’s head then fell off...and, suddenly, he was ablaze, a human torch. And, well—” He finished by just looking down and gesturing, rather hopelessly, to the smouldering heap.

Dryer took a few steps and bent down in order to examine the blood-spattered head. It was that of a man: dark black hair ruffled and streaked through with shades of light grey. Age-wise, he was probably in his mid-fifties. There was an Middle Eastern look to his olive-tanned features; almond-shaped brown eyes glared wildly with horror from behind the cracked lenses of a delicately framed pair of bent spectacles. For some macabre reason he suddenly remembered something he had once read—an article about those aristocratic French unfortunates who had been guillotined—about how the brain was supposed to still function for several seconds after decapitation, enabling one to witness the aftermath of one’s own beheading. The very thought made him shiver.

“Although it doesn’t quite fit in with the witness report, which, to be honest, I think we have to treat with some level of scepticism, I think the best possible explanation is, as I said earlier, spontaneous human combustion,” suggested Stevens.

Dryer stood up and turned to the forensic scientist. “What exactly is that? I mean, I’ve heard of it, but I’ve always thought that it was just one of those weird phenomena. Like that other thing whereby people claim to have bled from their palms and feet as though crucified.”

“That’s stigmata.” Stevens shook his head. “No, this is something entirely different. Had you asked me before this morning whether I believed the human body could just suddenly burst into flames without a source of ignition, I’d have laughed at the very concept. However, I just can’t see how else this could have happened. There have been numerous reports of this kind of thing occurring, but they always end up in the weird magazines, you know, the sort of fringe, paranormal stuff. That said, I do recollect reading a few years back an article in one of the more credible scientific publications detailing a supposed outbreak of S.H.C. in America in which over thirty individuals were all burnt in a similar manner to what we have here. However, in virtually all of those cases the remains were always found close to an ignition source; an electric fire, a television set, a hairdryer, overhead electricity cables, or some such. Clearly, in this case, there is no such thing, which just makes it all the more baffling.”

“And the head? How do you explain that? It looks to me as though that’s been sliced off, by a sword or an axe.”

“I agree.” Stevens rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “That’s even more difficult to explain. Certainly in the cases of spontaneous human combustion I’ve read about, the extremities were quite often found relatively intact. What I mean is: legs and arms were often found whole, untouched almost, amidst the ashes. It’s almost as though an intense heat consumed the torso and engulfed that alone, extinguishing itself once the core of the body was destroyed, causing the limbs to just ‘cave-in’, as it were. Obviously, in this instance it would appear that—”

“Hang on, wait a minute,” interrupted Dryer. “The witness states that the head was removed prior to the body setting alight.”

“Witness confusion. It has to be. The man was clearly shocked at what he saw. I mean, let’s face it, spontaneous human combustion is hard enough to believe, but people’s heads just falling off?”

“Can we be sure that they’re linked? Can we take it as a given that the head and the burnt remains belong to the same individual?”

Stevens’ look of puzzlement grew. “Lab tests should be able to confirm that. But have you got any reason to suspect otherwise?”

“No, but we have to be certain. At the moment I don’t know what we have here. Is it a dreadful accident, even though I don’t see how it could possibly have happened? Murder? Again, equally mysterious unless the witness is in fact the perpetrator. Or is it...I don’t know, a natural occurrence? Could this be something attributable to heavy smoking or excessive alcohol intake?”

“Smoking, maybe. Although I don’t know how. I suppose a lit cigarette, falling inside an inner article of clothing....” Stevens knew that his explanation was far-fetched, almost to the point of ridicule, but he was truly confused. There weren’t that many more straws for him to grasp at.

Dryer’s own cigarette had burnt low now. He removed it from his mouth, looked at it strangely, threw it to one side, walked over, and crushed it underfoot.

* * * * * * *

It was mid-afternoon, and Dryer was now sat at the desk in his office going through some of his paperwork. There was still no definite identification of the victim, despite the fact that he had a team working on the case. That the head had been preserved offered a good chance that sooner, rather than later, he would be able to put a name to the unfortunate, so that, at the very least, next of kin could be informed of the tragedy. He himself now believed it to have been a natural occurrence, no matter how unlikely that hypothesis seemed. The more he had listened to Stevens’ notion of spontaneous human combustion, the more he had gradually come round to that theory. After all, if it was murder, then how in hell’s name had it been executed without a single trace of flammable material present?

The remains were now in the morgue, no doubt being sifted through by the forensic expert. If he turned up anything, then it might alter the nature of the case, but so far he had heard nothing.

He had been in two minds about going out to St. Catherine’s in order to see if it was possible to question the witness, Mr. Laynham, but had decided against it. Again, if new evidence arose to suggest foul play, then that was an avenue of enquiry he could pursue at a later date.

There came a firm knock on his door.

“Come in.”

The door was opened by one of his officers. “Sir, there’s a man here to see you. He says it’s vitally important and that it’s to do with the discovery this morning.”

“That’s good. Send him in.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll get him.” The officer turned and went back to the main desk. He returned moments later with a tall, straight-backed, well-dressed man who looked to be in his early sixties. There was an air of distinguished erudition in the stranger’s bright blue eyes. His hair was a startling white and he had a well-groomed goatee.

Dryer waited in silence as his visitor entered and took a seat opposite.

The door closed as the officer left.

“I understand you have some information for us.” It wasn’t so much a question as a statement of fact.

“Yes, I believe I do. Allow me introduce myself. My name is Augustus Smith. I’m a collector of Middle Eastern antiquities. I have a boutique here in the city.”

“I see. Well, Mr. Smith, anything you can give me to help clear up this unfortunate incident will be extremely welcome. Can I ask, did you know the deceased? And secondly, just how do you know about this, as there has been no news released about it as far as I’m aware?”

“I’ll answer your second question first if I may. I arrived at the park shortly after you left and spoke with the policeman on duty just as to what had happened. He told me readily enough once I explained that I was concerned over the welfare of a friend of mine. Although he didn’t provide me with the details, I...I’ve seen enough to know what to expect.”

“I’m confused. ‘To know what to expect’? Just what do you mean by that?” Dryer sat up in his chair, his eyes boring into the other. Was this man somehow linked to the terrible happening this morning? Criminologists had a theory that the perpetrator of a crime was often compelled to return to the scene. Like a dog to its vomit, he thought.

“I think you’ll just have to believe me when I tell you that I’ve seen this thing before.”

Dryer tilted his head slightly. “Seen what exactly?”

Smith paused for a moment, clearly unsure as to how to continue. “The body, I take it, was terribly burnt? Beyond all recognition, save for the head?”

“That information hasn’t been disclosed as yet. Just how do you know this?” Dryer’s suspicion rocketed. Unless this enigmatic stranger had been the actual murderer or another witness who had not come forward at the time, surely there was no way he could—or rather should—be privy to this information. Surely his officers at the scene wouldn’t have been forthcoming with such sensitive details. That went beyond all protocols of police investigation.

“As I told you, Inspector, I’ve seen this thing before.”

“Where?” Dryer lent his elbows on the desk and interlinked his fingers, not taking his stern gaze from the informant.

“Baghdad. Mosul. Tikrit. And in half a dozen other towns and cities throughout Iraq. And now, it would appear, it’s here, in England.”

“I’m lost. Just what do you mean?”

“Can I ask, Inspector, are you a religious man?”

“Can’t say as I am. What’s that got to do with anything?” Dryer responded sharply. He was fast beginning to lose his patience. He had hoped for something a bit more relevant than this seemingly useless load of nonsense.

“Well then, you’re going to find it hard to accept what I’m about to tell you. You see—”

There came another knock at the door, but this time the person on the other side didn’t wait for a reply, merely barging straight in.

It was Stevens. His look of unsuccessfully suppressed excitement turned instantly to one of surprise upon seeing Dryer’s visitor.

“Have you got anything for me?” Dryer asked.

“Yes, but—” The forensic scientist threw a swift glance at Smith. It was abundantly clear he didn’t want to continue in the presence of the other.

Dryer nodded. “Mr. Smith. I’d appreciate it if you’d please step outside for a minute or two whilst I have a word with my colleague.”

With a slight nod of acquiescence, Smith rose from his chair and went outside.

Stevens closed the door behind him. “Who’s that?” he asked.

“Mr. Augustus Smith. He seems to know something about what happened in the park,l although I’m not exactly sure what to make of him. That he knows something is pretty apparent but exactly what, I don’t know as yet, nor his level of direct involvement. He claims to have seen things like this before, in Iraq of all places.” Dryer stopped, noticing a sudden strange look on Stevens’ face.

“Iraq? Are you sure?”

“Yes, why? Are you all right?”

Stevens sat down. “Hmm. Well, there’s a coincidence.”

“Is this something to do with your laboratory findings?”

“Forensically, everything was as one would expect. The head was that of a Middle Eastern male in his mid-fifties. There was a touch of glaucoma in his left eye, and I’ve been unable to match the spectacles to any local opticians, giving weight to the possibility that he is relatively new to this area, if not this country. His teeth weren’t in that great a condition either. However, that molten nugget that I originally took for some kind of surgical implant was nothing of the kind. I couldn’t have been further from the mark. Under the microscope, I found out that it was in fact a piece of partially molten bronze, and that it had been a small figurine of sorts. I’ve been late in getting back to you because I ran it by a friend of mine at the Museum, and within a couple of hours she got back to me telling me that, as far as she could make out, it was a representation of the Babylonian Daemon-God, Pazuzu.”

There was a certain level of indignation in Dryer’s cough as he shifted in his seat. He threw a surreptitious glance at the wall clock and it was clear that, for him at least, this day had gone on far too long. “So, we’ve got an ancient demon on the loose, have we? My, the Chief Superintendent’s going to love hearing about that!”

Stevens chuckled, but it was far from a genuine show of mirth. “Is that what he’s been on about?” He flicked his head to indicate the man waiting outside.

“Get him back in. See if he can shed any more light on this. I still don’t have a name as yet.”

Stevens nodded, opened the office door and readmitted Smith.

“You said you knew the victim. A name, if you please.” It wasn’t quite Dryer’s normal interrogation tone of voice that he reserved for the hard cases, but it soon could be.

“I believe the deceased to be Mr. Ali Hassan Jamal, an Iraqi national who travelled to England in order to seek my assistance. Alas, I was too late.”

“Your assistance. How exactly?”

“I possess certain...powers. Powers that can be used to keep certain things at bay.”

Dryer and Stevens exchanged bemused, knowing glances. They clearly had a deranged individual on their hands. It wouldn’t have been the first time such idiots had clouded cases with their bizarre claims and admissions.

“I don’t expect you to believe me, however I will leave you with this warning. I fully expect something identical to happen again quite soon. Unfortunately there will be others like Mr. Jamal, of that I am certain. Others will share a similar fate. This will only come to a conclusion when the evil entity that is doing this is defeated. And when I say defeated, I mean killed.”

“I’d be rather careful of what I said if I were you, Mr. Smith. Apart from the obvious nonsense, making threats like that could land you in serious trouble. You talk about possessing powers to keep things at bay. Well, I possess certain powers to keep people like yourself out of harm’s reach. Just what is it you’re on about?” There was an intense seriousness in Dryer’s tone despite the fact that he was certain that Smith was more than a touch unbalanced. He had to be. What other explanation for all of this talk so far could there be? All of this veiled insinuation about demons and evil entities....

“Some thirty years ago, I worked as an archaeologist out in Iraq. I was an assistant field director under Sir Leonard Woolley, working at the ancient Sumerian city of Ur. Early one morning, several weeks into our excavations, one of the Arab labourers failed to turn up for work. It wasn’t that unheard of or that surprising; however, news soon hit our camp that a terrible ‘accident’ has happened in one of the settlements nearby. A man’s severed head had been discovered atop a heap of charred bone and ash in one of the side streets not far from the marketplace. I found out later that the man had been the missing labourer and—”

“Mr. Smith. I’ve got no time for this. Now, if you’ve got anything useful to say, would you please get on with it,” Dryer interrupted impatiently.

“It’s clear you haven’t the time to hear my story, so I guess I’d better just cut to the chase, as it were. Basically, Inspector, what we have here is a vengeful demon, an efreeti, to give it its proper name, which has been loosened to wreak vengeance on certain individuals by Pazuzu. The first victim, the unfortunate from the archaeological dig, had found a votive cache of bronze heads of the Daemon God, perhaps over a hundred of them, and made off. No doubt he sought to sell them on the sly. Such criminality was rife. Regardless, those who are in possession of them are all either dead or in grave danger. As you have discovered, the unfortunate Mr. Jamal had one such relic. I too, have one.” Smith reached into a jacket pocket and removed a small, roughly spherical shaped lump of carved bronze. He extended his arm, held it out on his upturned palm. “I wouldn’t touch it if I were you. The sorcery that was contained in the one you discovered has been spent. It is no longer dangerous. This, however, still retains its potency.”

Dryer edged over the desk in order to get a better look. There was a violent, blood-thirsty, carnivorous glare in the bulging eyes and the snarling, dog-like face that spoke of chaos and depravity, hatred and malevolence. Despite the fact that he could have ordered the other to hand it over, there was something about it that urged him not to. It seemed to radiate evil and danger.

“You say that everyone who has one of these is in danger,” commented Stevens. “I take it that includes you.”

Smith loosened his cravat and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt. From beneath, he removed a length of chain from which dangled a circular medallion. “This is the Seal of Solomon. It keeps me protected from the powers of the efreeti. Provided I wear it at all times, I am safe.”

“Do you honestly expect us to believe any of this Arabian Nights nonsense? Efreetis? Magic amulets? Come on, this is absolute rubbish,” Dryer argued volubly. “You’ll be telling us next that it flies around on a magic carpet.”

“I can assure you, Inspector, that it’s all very real. Whether you believe me or not is of course your decision, but I can assure you that there will be further victims.”

* * * * * * *

Smith was correct with his terrifying prediction, for three days later, Dryer found himself staring down at the smouldering, fire-blackened remains of another victim. This time, however, the individual was readily identified as librarian and scholar, Doctor Jack Bentley. Once again, the detached head was found nearby, close to the row of bookshelves at which it was assumed, he had been working when tragedy struck. The fact that truly baffled Dryer was that, despite the obvious ferocity of the fire, which must have been severe—intense enough to reduce a man to nothing more than a heap of bone and ash—there was little or no damage to the immediate surroundings.

The whole library should have gone up like a tinderbox.

Stevens shook his head in disbelief as he emerged from behind one of the rows of books. “This is absolutely unreal. There’s no sign of intrusion, and once again no presence of flammable material. Really, John, I’ve got no idea how this happened. According to Miss Fowler who had found the ‘body’, Doctor Bentley was working late last night, going through some of the catalogues and rearranging the books. He was alone from six o’clock when she left.”

The smell was dreadful, repellent, eye-watering. It reminded Dryer of the time he had almost set his kitchen ablaze after forgetting about the rashers of bacon he had been grilling for breakfast. It had taken two days to remove the offensive smell even after opening all of the windows to ensure maximum ventilation. At least the first burnt remains had been discovered out in the open, but here—

For some macabre reason he felt as though his eyes were being constantly drawn to the severed head. “That look on his face,” he commented. “It’s as though he was witness to something absolutely horrendous.”

“I agree.” Stevens knelt down and put on his surgical gloves. Gingerly, he lifted the head, scrutinising the grisly piece of evidence. “Just like the other one. There’s no sign of cauterization, leading me to the fairly confident conclusion that it was removed prior to the actual fire by means of a sharp-bladed implement.”

“You mean he was decapitated. Then set alight?”

“I’m pretty sure of it.”

“But how? Why? And you realise that we’re now looking at murder?”

“It would appear so.” Stevens began delicately sifting through the ashes. “And Laynham’s still in hospital, so he’s out of the frame.”

“Right. Time to pay that oddball Smith a visit. I’ve had a feeling about him—”

“Here we are.” Stevens retrieved something from the smouldering pile.

“What is it?” There was a faint trace of reluctance in Dryer’s question; a quavering in his voice indicative of his concern. It was as though he dreaded hearing the answer.

“If I’m not mistaken, I’d say it’s one of those bronze heads.”

* * * * * * *

It was late afternoon when Dryer drove out to Smith’s house and the light was already fading from the sky. This part of town was not well known to him, and he looked in admiration at the large, handsome houses on either side of the road. There were some pleasing Georgian buildings with what he always thought of as ‘open features’: warm, welcoming kinds of homes. Driving further along the street, checking the numbers as he went, he was a little disappointed as the style of architecture changed to Victorian. The simple, rectangular windows were replaced by pointed gables and slightly mediaeval-looking decoration. Number Twenty-Three, which appeared on his right hand, was another Victorian Gothic edifice with a high wall and an iron gate. He parked his car and got out, pulling his coat tighter to stave off the chill air. Pushing open the gate, he then strode briskly to the front door, noticing that Smith must own the whole house, for there was no evidence of it having been divided into flats as so many of these larger houses commonly were.

The curiously wrought iron door-knocker was fashioned in the shape of a grotesque half-man, half-bull hybrid with bizarre curly hair, and Dryer hesitated for a moment before using it. Three dull echoes chased themselves along the hallway beyond and yet, surprisingly, made comparatively little exterior sound as though strangely muffled.

The best part of a minute passed, and he was about to knock once more when he heard the rattle of several security chains and then the door opened the narrowest of cracks.

“Yes?” The voice was weird, alien almost.

That single word, that one question, prompted Dryer to take a couple of steps back. He could see little of the individual beyond, but he got the impression that the other was tall and somehow intimidating. Was it just his imagination, or did he see a neon flash of violet in the shadows beyond?

“I—I’ve come to see Mr Smith. Is he—is he in?” An inner voice was calling out to Dryer to leave this place whilst he had the chance. To get away, whilst his mind and body remained intact. There was strangeness here; a conclusion he had reached within two minutes of standing on the doorstep. How much worse were things going to be inside?

“Yes.” There was no alteration in the voice at all. No change in tone or inflection, and yet that one word response seemed to imply something far greater than a mere affirmation.

Dryer was uncomfortable with the current situation. He felt awkward, not knowing how to initiate any form of further dialogue. Mustering his courage, he stepped forward, instilling some level of authority back into his manner. “If Mr. Smith is in, it’s important that I speak to him. This is official police business. I must ask that you step aside and admit me entrance.”

In utter silence the door swung open, permitting Dryer to enter.

It was dim and shadowy, and yet Dryer did a double-take upon making out the other’s admittedly tenebrous dimensions. He must have stood over seven, perhaps eight feet in height, and he was as slim as a beanpole. Eyeing the lanky giant suspiciously, he gulped and strode inside. No sooner had he crossed the threshold and taken a few short steps into the hall than the door swung shut behind him.

Sudden luminosity brightened the long, narrow room as two chandeliers flared into light.

Dryer’s heart leapt into his mouth as he noticed that he was alone. There was no sign of the weird being that had opened the door, nor was there anywhere he could have gone, unless he had somehow managed to slip outside even as he had come inside. That explanation seemed impossible, however, considering the size of the individual. A small, fleet-footed child might have been able to pull off such a dextrous feat, but—

Even as he stared, perplexed, bewildered, his eyes blinking unbelievingly, Dryer heard a muffled, dull-sounding explosion come from somewhere almost directly overhead. There then came a shout, followed by a second bang somewhat louder than the first. The lights shook and flickered for a moment.

“What the hell!?” Dryer cursed savagely and stared with some alarm at the ceiling, half-expecting it to come crashing down in a cave-in of beams and plaster. Fear rooted him to the spot for several heartbeats, and there was a tingling in his spine that felt as though a trickle of ice was beginning to slowly seep down his back. He was about to spin round and open the front door—assuming that it had not been mysteriously locked—in order to escape, when he saw Smith appear at the top of the staircase at the end of the hall.

“Inspector. If you’d be so good as to get up here as quickly as—”

Before Smith could finish, the front door, now at Dryer’s back, juddered fiercely. It was as though something powerful had taken hold of the entire frame and had given it a good shake. The locks rattled like a violent lunatic in chains.

“Quick! Upstairs!” shouted Smith.

Uncertain as to what was happening, Dryer took a couple of staggering steps, his eyes now on the front door. With utter horror, he began to see the interior wooden surface begin to blacken; smoking, scorched holes now appearing as though it had been struck by the intense rays of the sun which had been focused and magnified through a strong lens. The smell of burning wood struck his nostrils. Then came a bellowing cry and for some inexplicable reason, Dryer had the image of the fiendish door-knocker coming to life and uttering that unearthly noise.

“I would be quick if I were you, Inspector. My lamassu door guardian won’t hold the efreeti for long.”

The front door was now beginning to char and warp, buckle inwards. Tendrils of black, lachrymatory smoke began to fill the entryway and Dryer, fully realising that escape that way was no longer an option, made a run for the stairs. He was halfway up when he heard another snort of pain and anger. And then, with an almighty crash, the door smashed open in fragments of fiery wood. Flaming pieces landed like burning kindling on the carpet.

Somewhere at the edge of his vision, he saw the hall brighten, come afire with a burst of blazing colours. His eyes twisted horribly as they tried to bring whatever it was into sharper focus. They failed dismally every time. It was as if he was looking at everything that was happening through a twisted red haze that blurred his vision, making it impossible for him to see properly. Then, abruptly, the red haze was gone. There was a riotous clashing of colours in the middle of the hall, a chaotic madness of reds and yellows that was horrible to see, and he felt terror begin its slow seep against his sanity. In those brief seconds, strange, hideous, distorted shapes flitted amidst the wavering background of heatless flame. At any moment, he expected something grimacing and terrible to surge up at him from that illusionary conflagration, clawing for his body, something that didn’t have a human face at all, and stared at him out of black, soulless, unblinking eyes, fixing him with an evil, malignant stare.

“Quick! Everyone into the circle.” Smith all but pushed Dryer into a large room at the top of the landing.

With only seconds to realise what was happening and take in his surroundings, Dryer realised that there were two other individuals present as well as Smith. One of them was the giant, ectomorphic being who had answered the door, whilst the other was a fair-haired man in his fifties. The man was smartly dressed and normal-looking, except for the fear and terror in his face, discernible in the manner in which he stared wildly all around him, but it was the giant—

Smith suddenly slammed shut the door of the room and forcibly steered Dryer into the centre of the room where the others were gathered.

A storm of unreality battered at Dryer as he tried to mentally process everything that was unfolding. His eyes were drawn again to the bizarre being that had opened the front door before vanishing. The man—if indeed it were such—had a pale golden-blue colour to his flesh, which glistened and scintillated as though it had been sprinkled with a strange, exotic confetti. The being’s head was disproportionately large in relation to its tall, thin body, like that of a hydrocephalic, and the eyes were a peculiar violet colour. The face—grim and unsmiling. What clothing it wore was similarly peculiar, unlike anything he had ever seen before, alien almost.

“There’s little time for an explanation, Inspector. Stay within the circle.”

Looking to the floor, Dryer saw that the four of them were all stood within a large circle that had been drawn with a range of coloured chalks. There were curious, cabbalistic symbols that ran in a ring around the circumference, all of which meant absolutely nothing to him whatsoever, although he suspected they must have been linked to some form of Black Magic. What other explanation was there for this unholy experience? He was about to say something when the door swung open.

In the doorway stood a dark-suited, bald, fat man, his fleshy, heavily-jowled face awash with sweat and pure malice. There was a something in his piggy, narrow-set eyes that gave them a strong hint of unconstrained anger and malice as though he bore a deep-rooted hatred of all bar himself.

Smith took a forward step, still remaining well within the circle. “Klaus Weidenreich. I should have known.”

“Augustus, my old friend.” Weidenreich’s voice was slick and oily and undoubtedly German. His eyes were dark and dangerous, like tar pits into which the unwary could become stuck; drown in their terrible depths. “You know why I’m here, Smith. There are only two of my Lord Pazuzu’s tokens remaining. You have one...and Doctor Harris,” he nodded to the fair-haired man, “has the other.”

Dryer was finding it hard to retain a grip on himself in the face of this insanity. Things were happening which he had never, even in his wildest nightmares, considered possible. With some level of mental resignation, he knew that all of his hard-nosed police training and experience was of little use in a situation such as this. He had no authority here—a realisation that only increased the fear and the mind-numbing terror which now ran virtually unchecked through the very core of his being. Tough talking and the threat of a jail sentence was of no use here. Admittedly, a gun may have been useful, but somehow he even doubted that.

Weidenreich looked down with a derisive sneer at the drawn circle. “How long do you think your pathetic protection will keep you safe? An hour, maybe two? And as for your djinn...well we both know it will be no match against the efreeti. As to your third ‘friend’, with him I have no grievance.” He stared directly at Dryer. “So he may leave—” Raising his right hand, he made a beckoning motion with it.

Instantly, Dryer felt much of the stiffness leave his body. And yet the sensation he experienced was as though he was no longer in control of his own muscles. His legs began walking of their own volition, and he was just about to cross over the circle when Smith cried out something in a language he had never heard before and he was brought to a complete standstill. A second later, he snapped out of the strange trance he had been put under and a firm resolution, hard as steel, returned to his mind. Under different circumstances, this would have been the time to strike back at the other, verbally if not physically. This, however, was not the time or the situation. Since stepping into this strange house and becoming embroiled in all of this devilry and occult malignancy, all vestiges of his sane, rational thought processes had dissipated, evaporated almost to the point of nothingness. All of his life he had prized himself on his no-nonsense approach to life, managing to maintain his mental well-being and outlook.

Weidenreich’s look of disappointment at not having charmed Dryer into stepping outside the circle suddenly changed to one of surprise as Harris pulled a revolver from his jacket pocket. Next came the loud report as a bullet was fired, followed in rapid succession by five others. All but one hit their target and the room darkened as the bald-headed German sorcerer was sent flying, blood streaming from five bullet wounds.

Dryer’s first reaction was one of shock. He was a Detective Inspector and someone had committed murder in the first degree right in front of his very eyes. However, the spectacle was made worse when, emitting a horrible, mocking laugh, Weidenreich began to get to his feet.

That dark wave of disbelief and horror surged at Dryer like a black tide once more. One bullet, certainly fired from that range and with that accuracy should have been enough to kill, but how on earth could someone survive getting hit by five? His mind was screaming silently as he noticed that two of the shots had left terrible gaping, bloody holes in Weidenreich’s head. And yet, even now those wounds were closing, shrinking until they vanished completely. There was no longer any sign of blood. It was as though he had never been shot at all!

“He’s the efreeti!” Smith shouted. “It must have possessed him and taken his body. Devoured his very soul.”

The thing that had gone by the name of Klaus Weidenreich gave an unspeakably fiendish grin, baring a mouthful of jagged, shark-like teeth. Howling its fury, it then began to transform further, tearing its way out of the corpulent body with the razor sharp talons that had sprouted on the end of its fingers. Long, elastic strands of flesh stretched and snapped like lengths of rubber as a hideous entity began to reveal itself in its true, abominable form.

Dryer’s nerve faltered and his mouth trembled as he tried to scream, to give some expression to the revulsion and the terror that threatened to rend him asunder as assuredly as the thing that now snarled before them intended on doing. Harris stumbled to his knees and covered his eyes, his ineffectual revolver falling from his quaking grasp. Smith too seemed to recoil, raising his arm in order to remove the talisman—The Seal of Solomon—that hung around his neck. The efreeti was a nightmare born of evil and chaos; a fire-loving, demonic elemental being whose sole purpose was to kill those who opposed it. Naked, its appearance was vaguely humanoid, its skin blacker than coal. Its face was angular, composed largely of that wide, fang-filled maw and a pair of hellish, black eyes in which tiny flames burnt and danced. Two short, bent horns sprouted from its head. In one hand it gripped a devilish weapon that looked like a set of huge, viciously-sharp garden shears fashioned from a strange, rune-adorned metal. With a dreadful singleness of purpose, it lifted this instrument of death, took it in both hands and brought both of the blades together, snapping it shut. It opened again, grinned maliciously, and cut through the air once more. Threateningly, it then drew a finger across its throat and pointed at those in the circle, signally its fiendish intent—to decapitate them all.

“Can you do anything?” Dryer begged Smith. “We can’t wait in the circle forever.”

“Yes, but first—” Smith raised his amulet and muttered something in an arcane tongue. His next words seemed to come not from his mouth but from somewhere else: “I’ve now rendered the circle silent so that the efreeti can no longer hear us. There’s no point in us devising a plan if it can listen in, now is there?” He helped Harris to his feet.

Dryer hesitated, unsure of how to respond.

“Feel free to speak now, Inspector.” Smith’s lips seemed to be moving, but Dryer was convinced that no sound was coming from them.

As though in response to this new subterfuge on the part of those within the protective circle, the efreeti vanished, became invisible.

“Fear not. My djinn can see it even if it thinks otherwise. It will alert me to its movements. However, our situation remains very precarious. The efreeti has several options, whereas we have very few. The circle will not hold indefinitely, so it is only too well aware that we are under siege. The Seal of Solomon will keep me safe, however; please be assured I will not abandon you and Doctor Harris. I am truly sorry that you find yourself in this situation, Inspector. A case of very unfortunate timing on your part, I’m afraid to say. You see you arrived at just the moment when I performed the incantation of summoning.”

“You...you mean to say you summoned that thing?”

“Yes. Both Doctor Harris and myself came to the decision that we were no longer prepared to be the prey, forever hunted by the efreeti. We resolved to drawing it out where, it was hoped, we could confront it on our own terms. I must say, I was not expecting it to assume Weidenreich’s guise.”

“Who is...was Weidenreich?” Dryer stared confusedly from Smith to Harris.

“He was an archaeologist like myself. However, he later fell in with the wrong people and became a leading occultist, a disciple of the Dark Arts. He must’ve sold his very soul to Pazuzu in order to become a conduit for the efreeti. Speaking of which—” Smith turned his gaze to one side as the vengeful, evil spirit reappeared on the edge of the circle. With a savage cry it smote its weapon off some kind of invisible, unyielding, mystical barrier.

Sparks flew as it hacked down again and again.

For a moment, Dryer once more found himself mentally wrestling with the reality of all of this. It was absolutely insane, his pragmatic, rational mind shrieked at him. It had to be. He closed his eyes, willing the ghastly vision to fade away, but when he opened them, it was still there.

The efreeti, obviously reaching the conclusion that savagery and brute force would not bring down the barrier, had now resorted to making foul gestures that were directed at them. It seemed to be relishing in the fact that it had them trapped.

“Why doesn’t it just set the room on fire? Burn everything around us?” asked Dryer.

“It can’t. As yet, it lacks a true physicality. It’s unable to interact directly with the real world unless via another form of magical power. The Pazuzu heads, this protective circle or my door guardian, for example. According to the research I’ve done over the years, this is why it is specifically after the heads. I believe that once it has ‘reclaimed’ all of them, by immolating those who own them, it will be able to assume a true physical presence. This would spell utter disaster. It would enable the Daemon God to reawaken from the imprisonment the ancient Babylonian priests forced upon Him. Chaos and destruction would spread over the world on an unprecedented level. And yet...maybe that is the only way of ultimately defeating it.”

“What do you mean?” asked Harris. “We can’t allow it to—”

“My old friend, it may be our only means of imprisoning it once more.”

“So what can we do?” asked Harris, concernedly. There was fear stamped across his face. “We’re cursed with these damned heads. No matter how many times I’ve tried, I just can’t get rid of it. If only that Arab fool hadn’t stolen them in the first place.”

“We were all guilty of greed, back then. One can’t just lay the blame on him. We all took our share of the heads, knowing full well they were archaeological relics. Admittedly, we only took one each, unlike some of the others. It was Weidenreich who ultimately deceived us all.”

“I don’t give a damn about that,” shouted Dryer. “Just how the hell are we going to escape? Can’t your djinn or whatever it is do something?” He cast a curious eye at the tall, silent figure. It had stood, motionless, like a statue, throughout their time in the circle. It was clear to him that there was a considerable amount of turbulent history between all three of them; Smith, Harris, and the German. Dark deeds had been done and darker promises and oaths broken, of that he had little doubt, but ruminating over the past was not going to get them out of this problem.

“I’ve had another idea,” said Smith, stroking his goatee. He gave Harris a firm but friendly pat on the shoulder. “What I do now I do in the hope that it will save both you and the Inspector.” Before the other could make offer any resistance, he shouted something to the djinn. Instantly, the tall entity vanished.

“What are you doing?” cried Harris.

Grasping his talisman, Smith, ignoring the protestations of the others, stepped outside the circle.

Dryer stared in shock and disbelief as the efreeti moved to intercept Smith. It seemed to grow in stature, becoming a flame-wreathed shadow that reared over the man, its vicious weapon raised in readiness to strike, to bring those lethal blades snapping shut.

And then, with a sharp tug, Smith broke the chain that held the Seal of Solomon and dashed it to the floor.

What happened next was to remain with Dryer for the rest of his life. For in that instant, the efreeti did bring the twin blades together, scissoring them shut with a terrible finality. Accompanied by a thick jet of blood, and a horrified scream from Harris, Smith’s head was lopped off and went spiralling into the air. It landed with a sickening thud on the floor. And then, the dark shadow seemed to engulf its victim, transforming the headless body, which still stood upright, into a blazing pillar of fire, a human candle.

Like some bizarre flaming sacrificial effigy, Smith’s body remained standing as the flames turned from red to deep orange to green and then blue. This was a mystical fire, heatless; even as Dryer stared fixedly, he was startled to see that Smith’s arms were still moving, weaving strange patterns in the air.

A dense, deep blue cloud seemed to gather around. The cloud became a fog. There came an unearthly scream and the room was suddenly filled with an appalling stench like that of a corrupt, cremated soul.

Through the cloud, Dryer saw the headless body crumble. One moment it was there, the next it just seemed to disintegrate. The cloud dissipated. And in that instant, there was an almost tangible reduction in air pressure and he knew that the power of the magic circle had also gone. All that remained of Smith was now a heap of slightly glowing embers. Resting atop them was one of the fused, molten, bronze heads.

There was no sign of the efreeti.

“What? What happened?” asked Dryer, eyes staring wildly from his head. Everything seemed so terribly fantastic, nightmarish. There was a whirling, raging chaos within his brain that threatened to pull him apart. He grasped his head in his hands and with wooden steps staggered from the circle.

“Be not alarmed.”

Dryer and Harris turned. The voice had come from Smith’s severed head, which now lay in the centre of a pool of dark blood, which had stained the thick carpet. There was a bright blue intensity in the eyes.

“The efreeti is bound once more. By permitting the djinn to possess me I have been able to contain it, force it back to the realm from which such beings come. Alas, I can feel my power waning. Farewell, Doctor Harris, my friend...and goodbye to you too, Inspector.” The bright sparkle in the eyes dwindled and then went out as though extinguished.

“I...I don’t—” Dryer stumbled to one side, managed to support himself on a cabinet.

Harris reached into his pocket and removed the one remaining Pazuzu head. He hesitated for a moment, examining it once more as though noting something strange about it. It was as he was doing so that it began to melt, the bronze flowing like super-heated wax despite the fact that it emitted no heat. The liquid bronze became rivulets that ran between his fingers before dripping to the carpet and disappearing, signalling that the thirty-year curse was finally over.