Cryptic Clues E-Book

Ian Taylor

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

A collection of three mystery novels by Ian Taylor & Rosi Taylor, now available in one volume!
Catching Phantoms: At the edge of the Pennine Moors, Detective Sergeant Blackshaw and his partner, Detective Constable Lumb, are faced with a harrowing double murder on a sacred burial ground. As they delve deeper into the investigation, they uncover a chilling connection to an ancient Celtic cult thriving in the remote village of Pen Crags. Consumed by ambition and an insatiable thirst for answers, DC Lumb becomes entangled with the enigmatic group and mysteriously vanishes. With a string of inexplicable deaths haunting their pursuit, Sergeant Blackshaw must race against time to unravel the sinister plot.
The Gatekeeper: In the quiet English village of Low Moor, young vicar Paul Milton finds himself thrust into a web of darkness when his wife mysteriously vanishes. Uncovering the town's ominous energy, Paul becomes entangled in a dangerous conflict between a malevolent Celtic sorceress and a determined Christian geomancer, each vying for control over a potent mystical power hidden beneath the surface. As tensions escalate and a gateway to the darkest forces of the Otherworld opens, Paul must summon all his courage to rescue his wife.
Time Of The Demon: After a mysterious object crashes in a field near the Half Moon Inn, the disappearance of two barmaids sets off a chain of bizarre events. Jan Barnes, a local reporter, becomes intrigued by the strange occurrences and joins forces with the enigmatic paranormal investigator, Gregory Houseman. As they delve deeper into the unfolding mystery, they uncover a web of government conspiracy and unimaginable supernatural forces. With their lives at stake, Jan and Gregory must navigate this disturbing world to uncover the truth. But can they survive the perilous journey and expose the secrets hidden within?

Leseprobe

CRYPTIC CLUES

A MYSTERY NOVEL COLLECTION

IAN TAYLOR

ROSI TAYLOR

CONTENTS

Catching Phantoms

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

The Gatekeeper

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Time of the Demon

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

About the Authors

Copyright (C) 2023 Ian Taylor and Rosi Taylor

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2023 by Next Chapter

Published 2023 by Next Chapter

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors imaginations or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the authors’ permissions.

CATCHING PHANTOMS

OR THE STRANGE CASE OF MARTIN LUMB

1

It was a windy September night of moonlight and flying cloud. The leafy oak wood to the north of the ancient burial ground roared and hissed like a high tide over shingle. The flat shelf of land half way up the hillside which contained the archaeological excavation was deserted.

A car with doused headlights climbed a steep grassy track and stopped in a flat area of wheel-churned mud that the archaeologists used for parking their vehicles. Pete Ford and Jim Cooke, two experienced nighthawks, climbed out and looked around. Satisfied that they were the only people abroad at two o'clock in the morning, they fitted their head torches, took their metal detectors and spades from the vehicle and set off into the cleared area of the archaeological dig.

"Olly never said it was such a big site," Pete remarked in surprise. "We're not gonna do it all in a couple of hours."

"I'm not happy about this place," Jim grumbled. "There's all kinds of weird tales about it."

"Strange tales never hurt anyone," Pete replied curtly.

"But that Ludd's Castle's just up the hill." Jim glanced apprehensively up the moon-washed hillside to the east. "They say it's the entrance to hell! There was a bloke took stones from up there and he died right after!"

"Don't worry about it, mate," Pete tried to sound as reassuring as he could. "It's all just idle gossip!" He forced a laugh, not wanting to reveal that he too felt a little unnerved. "Just think of all the amazing stuff we're gonna find up here tonight, with no one on earth to stop us!"

As soon as they began quartering the site Jim became engrossed in his metal detecting and began to relax. They started digging holes, which yielded bracelets, rings, brooches and a gold torque, which they hurriedly prised from among the skeletal remains. They were jubilant.

"Didn't I tell you?" Pete said excitedly. "They're quality Iron Age grave goods! We should have got here earlier!"

They dug more holes, heaping their finds at the edge of the site. They were so preoccupied it was a few moments before they realised they were no longer alone. A new note had been added to the voice of the wind in the oak wood: an eerie hollow moaning that seemed to encircle them, like a coil of energy.

Jim glanced up. Whatever it was that he saw made him drop his metal detector in terror. Something – he couldn't comprehend what it was – towered over them in the moonlight. The thing radiated a sense of violent hostility and menace. Jim screamed. Pete turned and saw it too.

"Jesus!" he blurted out. "Jesus save us!"

The moaning intensified, its pitch modulating to a spine-shuddering howl. Speechless, Jim backed away in terror.

The two nighthawks panicked, dropped their metal detectors, abandoned their collection of grave goods and fled for their car...

But they couldn’t escape. They had no sooner reached their vehicle than the creature was upon them again.

Jim was paralysed with fear. Pete pushed him into the passenger's seat, then leaped behind the wheel, swung the car around and drove away frantically, hurling the vehicle down the track and on to the narrow lane that ran past the bottom of the hill.

Jim was hysterical."We shouldn't have come! This place is cursed! We've woke a demon! WE SHOULDN'T HAVE COME!"

"Shut up!" Pete yelled. "I've got to concentrate!"

The terrifying creature suddenly appeared in front of them, in the middle of the lane. Pete slammed on the brakes, but lost control of the vehicle on the loose gravel surface. The skidding car careered from the lane and crashed into woodland. Moments later it burst into flames.

* * *

Detective Sergeant Ray Blackshaw, fifty-four years old and with the highly-toned musculature of a lifelong fell walker, snatched up his bedside phone and lay back on his pillow. He listened in silence for half a minute, then grunted confirmation.

"Right, I'll be there. Will you contact DC Lumb? Tell him I'll pick him up in twenty minutes."

"What time is it, Ray?" Denise, his wife, asked sleepily as he rang off.

"Quarter to four. Go back to sleep."

"Least I can do is make you some toast."

She left him to dress, put on her robe and went downstairs.

Ten minutes later he was on his way to the door, putting on his Berghaus all-weather jacket as he went.

"See you tonight, love."

She caught him up in the doorway with a thermos flask of tea. He smiled at her tenderly, then kissed her on the cheek.

"Thanks, love. How would I cope?"

"Ring me if you're going to be late." She said the same thing every day.

He gave his usual reply. "I'll let you know what's happening."

He drove away from his detached stone-built Victorian property, trying not to think about the hours ahead of him. He liked to start each day with an uncluttered mind – it would become crowded with thoughts soon enough. To retain clarity he had to start off empty and deal with each notion as it arrived. He imagined his mind as a jail, with his thoughts as prisoners, only setting them free when they had served their purpose.

He enjoyed driving the unmarked Volvo Estate. He considered it to be his personal vehicle and hated parting with it when he took annual leave, knowing some other officer, like an unwelcome guest, would be driving it. The Volvo had room for more gear than the Astras – and Ray liked to be prepared. In winter he carried snowchains, a sleeping bag and a mountain tent. All year round he made room for extra waterproofs, waders, wellingtons, spare socks and walking boots.

He carried idiosyncratic items, such as a landing net for scooping floating items of evidence from canals and rivers and infrared night-vision binoculars for covert surveillance in areas without streetlights. He had a range of different torches and rucksacks and a county-wide collection of large-scale maps.

He always carried his Penang lawyer – his favourite walking stick – plus a Makila and a Scottish Kebbie. No matter where he went in the Volvo, he felt he was prepared for just about anything – with the exception of coping with his cocky young partner.

* * *

Detective Constable Martin Lumb, lank-haired and lean, watched TV with the sound off in the living room of his two-bedroomed semi while he waited for Ray to pick him up. Although he respected his senior colleague, he was not enjoying working with him. He frequently found the older man's methods laborious and baffling and his offbeat interests incomprehensible.

At thirty years of age Martin was a devotee of the world of technology, which he was convinced was the most important single factor in future police work. Ray, on the other hand, hated technology, preferring to rely on his ‘good old-fashioned powers of deduction’. Martin felt their differences were more obstacles than assets. What Ray felt remained a mystery.

But it wasn't just Ray that made him unhappy. His career disappointed him these days. He believed passionately in the value of his work, but more and more he was having to deal with bottom-rung dysfunctionals: drug abusers, drunks, out-of-control kids, petty thieves and the increasing prevalence of domestic violence, especially among the poor. Uniforms bore the brunt of it, but he saw enough to depress him. Belief in the rule of law was one thing – it had attracted him to the job in the first place – but to be a daily witness to what he felt was the implosion of society was an experience he found increasingly hard to bear.

Was this his lot for the next twenty-five years? Surely not. There had to be something else. He had to move into more challenging work. But his provincial location held him back. If only he could crack a major case he would be noticed. That was his ticket to a more fulfilling life.

Ray was pulling up on the road outside. If his senior partner suffered from gloomy thoughts, he never let on. When they were out on a particularly sordid case Ray would simply say "don't let it get to you". But it did. Increasingly. When Ray was a young cop things weren't quite so extreme. The ugliness and routine violence had crept in slowly. He'd had time to adjust. And Ray had always been able to escape into the wild moorland landscapes that formed the backdrop to their daily lives. But, as a more urban creature, he himself found them dark and forbidding.

With an effort Martin suppressed his despair. He grabbed his mobile and shouted up the stairs: "I'm off now, Abby. Ray's just arrived. Ring you later."

The bedroom door opened and Abby, his twenty-five-year-old hairdresser wife, leaned over the banisters in her pyjamas. "Will we have time to go for a drink tonight?"

"Haven't a clue. I'll get us a takeaway. Chinese or Indian?"

"Italian."

She blew him a kiss, then he was gone.

* * *

"All right, Martin?" was Ray's habitual greeting as the detective constable got into the passenger's seat.

"We on a major drugs bust?" Martin asked hopefully. "Terrorists hijacked a Ryanair jet? All they would say at HQ was it's an incident."

Ray explained as he drove west out of town. "You've met Jack Boothroyd?"

Martin's heart sank "Once. Unfortunately. I thought he was full of shit."

Ray laughed. "He's seen something weird."

"Seen it or made it up?"

"Probably a bit of both. He rang emergency services at half-past three saying there were guys on fire running around in his wood."

"What kind of hooch is he brewing in his cow shed?"

"I agree it might be a waste of time, but we have to follow it up."

Martin sighed. He could have had another three hours kip. Already he knew it was going to be another depressing day.

* * *

By the time Ray and Martin were within ten minutes' drive of their destination, the first signs of daylight had begun to creep up from the eastern horizon and the darkness of the night hours was imperceptibly changing to a world of monochrome grey. They turned off the ‘A’ road and entered a network of narrow lanes. A signpost indicated that the village of Stone Clough was three miles distant.

They were approaching Jack Boothroyd's farm, which lay a mile west of Stone Clough, when Ray spotted the farmer talking with two rough-looking characters in his stackyard. A mud-spattered pickup was pulled in, with caged ferrets and nets in the back. Jack leaned against the driver's door of his ageing Fiat panel van, laughing with the two hunters. The farmer was no doubt having fun entertaining his audience, Ray thought, with incandescent tales from the wee small hours. When the detectives arrived in the stackyard the two hunters promptly drove off down a field track, with a shouted promise to Jack to "get you a brace by dinner time."

As soon as they got out of the Volvo, Ray noticed Martin hang back. He knew his young colleague disliked Jack Boothroyd, but your witnesses couldn't all be celebrity lookalikes. Okay, Jack wasn’t a very pleasant guy, a cruel misogynist with a complete absence of personal hygiene. But his tales were a window into his character, and as a detective, you were paid to hear them.

Ray was saddened that Martin seemed to lack curiosity. Anyone who possessed curiosity – which, to Ray, was a synonym for life – would at least look around the farmyard, note the old stone byres and barn, and marvel at the abilities of long-dead men who could raise such massive lintels and lay the cobbled surface so no puddles formed in even the wettest weather. But Martin wasn't interested. Ray noticed his partner already had his mobile in his hand, reassured by the world of technology if not by people.

"Morning, Jack. Got a rabbit problem?" Ray laughed.

"Mornin' to you, Ray. Long time no visit." The farmer pushed back his grease-stained cap with a grimy hand. "Makes me think Stone Clough must be a law-abiding parish."

Ray smiled. There was an edge to Jack's humour that he enjoyed. It was the product of the independent mindset that prevailed among the area's hill farmers. Most of the older folk had it, to a greater or less extent. Justice too was a local matter, meted out without much recourse to the police. Times here had always been hard, like the men who lived through them. Such men had for centuries made their own rules, which acted as a unifying force in their ancient communities. They dispensed their own tough punishments on transgressors, the police mostly considered an irrelevance. The fact that Jack had called them was unusual, even if only as a break in tradition.

"Tell me about last night, Jack," Ray began. "I hear you had a bit of excitement."

Jack was eager to relate his tale. "Dogs were barking fit to wake the spirit of human kindness. I thought I had a gang of sheep rustlers from Pen Crags, but when I looked out the landing window I saw the fire. Larches by the lane were going up like tinder."

"What time was this?"

"Half-three. Hall clock chimed the half hour as I was on the phone."

Ray was pleased to see that his partner had put away his mobile and begun taking notes. That was good, it would make the report writing easier... for Martin.

"What could you see from the window?" Ray asked.

"I thought I could see the shape of a vehicle agin the flames, so I said I wanted fire, police and ambulance," Jack stated earnestly. "There was two feIlas got out – I could see 'em agin the fire – and they started running away. But then they began waving their arms and running all over, like they'd gone crazy. I opened the window thinking they was being shot at, but I never heard no gunfire. I went over in the van, but I couldn't see the two fellas. Then the fire engine came and hooked up to the trough line and had the fire out in half an hour. They found the two fellas dead as last Sunday's roast beef."

"Did anyone move the bodies?" Ray asked when Jack's tale seemed to be finished.

Jack shook his head. "They're lying in the larches, just where they fell."

"They didn't get clear of the trees then?"

"Nope. But they'd have got out if they hadn't run back into the wood."

Ray was lost for a moment. "I don't follow you, Jack."

Jack's weather-worn features underwent a strange metamorphosis, taking on a cast of childlike amazement. The detectives noticed the change with surprise.

"That's what's foxed me about this business," Jack replied, his voice betraying a sense of wonder. "They could've got clear of the wood, but then they starts waving their arms like I said and running about. Then..." he shrugged and shook his head, "I never saw anything like it. They turned round and ran back into the flames."

"They did what?" Ray exclaimed.

"They ran back in. I saw 'em in my field glasses from the window. Like they daren't come out, as if the wood was surrounded with Jerry machine guns! Then, like I said, I went over in the van and the fire brigade found the bodies."

"Is the wood fenced with a barrier, like barbed wire maybe?" Ray asked.

"It's surrounded with nowt more dangerous than nettles," Jack replied.

"Have you any idea what they were doing out here in the middle of the night?"

"I reckon they were up on the hill at that dig, thieving the jewels off of the burials," Jack said decisively. "So they wouldn't be locals. Even though we hate those Pen Crags folk, we'd never go robbing their graves."

"There's an archaeological site up there?" Ray asked in surprise.

"There is that. They've been working on it this past week."

"What's it got to do with Pen Crags? It's in your parish, isn't it?"

Jack's face suddenly darkened. "There's a tale attached to that land, but it's too long to be telling you now." Without another word he disappeared into his milking parlour.

2

Before they left the farm Ray took his binoculars from the Volvo and they studied the area Jack had indicated. Beyond the farm the land rose steeply to the east in a long grassy slope, topped by the raised outline of a bronze age tumulus, and further south, the earthworks of an Iron Age enclosure, shown as Ludd's Castle on Ray's map. Half way up the slope the hillside levelled off into a flat shelf.

"That flat area must be the site of the dig," Ray said.

Martin nodded. "That's logical. Burials need flat ground."

"What do you make of Jack's tale?" Ray asked.

Martin shrugged. "Hard to say. He seemed sincere, but so do all tellers of tall tales. What do you think?"

"Don't know yet. Let's take a look."

They drove up the lane that led from the farm to the wood and parked fifty metres from where two uniformed constables were closing the access with cones and police tape. The fire was out and the fire brigade were damping down. A burned-out car lay on its roof among the charred trunks of the larches. A SOC officer from a private firm was examining the lane at the point at which the vehicle had plunged into the woodland. The detectives greeted the officer, who introduced himself as Al.

"Looks like an accident to me," Al said. "Is it supposed to be a crime scene?"

"That's what we need to find out," Ray replied. "Shall we look at the bodies?"

The three men picked their way through the wood to where the two bodies lay ten metres apart, face down among the fire-blackened trees. What clothing they could see was scorched, but not as badly burned as they’d expected. Al took photographs.

"What's your best guess for cause of death?" Ray asked Al.

"I've seen much worse," he said, "with victims that managed to recover. But there may be some damage to internal organs. It depends how close they were to the hottest part of the fire. Heart failure's another possibility. We'll have to wait for the post mortem."

"Our witness seemed to suggest they were disoriented and didn't know which way to run once they escaped from the car," Ray commented.

"That's normal," Al replied. "If you're on fire, which they might have been, you're in a state of panic and you don't behave logically. Can we turn them over?"

They turned the bodies and stood back in surprise.

"Well now, this is interesting," Al said. "The burns are much worse. Not incineration exactly, but serious damage. I'm not surprised they didn't manage to escape from the trees. They might have gone blind and their lungs probably gave out."

Ray noticed Martin was hanging on, his face drained, his eyes staring. He realised his colleague had never seen anything quite as horrific in his five years with the force. He steered him gently away, leaving Al to take more photos.

"Tea break when you're ready," Ray suggested. "Join us in the Volvo."

"Nice one!" Al grinned.

They left the wood and looked at the tyre marks in the loose surface of the lane. Martin seemed to be recovering himself.

"Why, I wonder, did those guys drive off the lane on a rain-free moonlit night?" Ray asked.

"They could have been trying to avoid something," Martin suggested, "like deer running across maybe?"

"That's possible. But they were travelling at a fair speed." Ray pointed to the tyre marks in the gravel. "See the length of the skid. Why such a rush?"

"They must have been disturbed by someone," Martin replied without hesitation.

"They surely must," Ray said. "Perhaps the excavation site can tell us more."

Al joined them and they sat in the Volvo drinking from Ray's flask of tea. No one spoke much, each man immersed in his private thoughts.

"I still can't see any evidence for a crime being committed," Al said at last. "I don't know why I'm here. Just my bad luck for being on the graveyard shift, I suppose."

"We haven't finished yet, Al," Ray said. "Those dead guys might not have been locals. We have to find out, if we can, what they were getting up to out here at three in the morning."

"We've something else to look at?" Al asked in surprise.

"An archaeological dig," Martin said. "Just up the hill here. Are you into archaeology?"

"Not in the least," Al replied. "I'm a total dunce when it comes to history."

"That makes at least two of us," Martin said with a quick glance at Ray.

"Count me in as well," Ray said. "Romans and Normans and the battle of Trafalgar and that's about my lot."

Although Martin smiled at Ray's self-deprecating comment he didn’t for one moment believe him. His senior colleague was far too well informed to dismiss his erudition so lightly. It was a ploy, Martin felt, to enable Ray to ask him leading questions, when all the time the man knew most of the answers. Ray would call it ‘training to think like a detective’.

They drove up the hillside track, parked and walked slowly along the bottom edge of the cleared excavation area. Half a dozen random holes had been dug in the exposed surface, their contents heaped at the edge of the site. Two spades, two small trowels and two metal detectors lay scattered and abandoned.

"There's our crime scene," Ray said. "Whatever happened up here led to the situation we've just been looking at in the wood. First thoughts please."

"Seems like they left in a hell of a hurry," Al said. "A surprise interruption and panic.""Could have been someone they knew," Martin put in. "Rival detectorists. They probably keep tabs on each other all the time."

"You're not thinking," Ray said. "Why would rival detectorists leave the loot behind, when that's what they'd be after themselves?"

Martin looked vexed with himself for being shown up in front of Al. "So it must have been someone else. Not a detectorist."

"But who?" Ray asked.

"People from Pen Crags maybe," Martin replied.

"Why do you think that?"

"It's their burial ground. Jack Boothroyd pretty much admitted that."

Good reply, Ray thought. Martin had got himself together. "You could be right. But how did they know those guys were up here?"

"A tip off," Martin suggested.

Ray thought a moment. "Possibly. But someone in Pen Crags would have had to be very well connected to all the wrong people."

"It could have been in the specialist mags, archaeology journals and the like. News of the dig could have been out there," Martin persisted. "This place would be a target for thieves. In that context, a three a.m. patrol from Pen Crags seems like a strong possibility."

"Very well thought through, Martin." Ray beamed. "But if Pen Crags people are so committed to guarding their dead, how come this burial ground has ended up in Stone Clough parish?"

No one had answers to that. Ray gazed thoughtfully at the site as Al began taking photographs of the grave goods.

"See what you can find out," Ray said encouragingly to Martin. "I just need to get a feel for the place." He strode off without another word.

Martin studied the surface of the excavation site, taking care not to move carelessly and obliterate any evidence. He was still disturbed by the harrowing images of the two dead men, but he had to switch that off. He must apply himself one hundred per cent and not miss the obvious. He couldn't look like an idiot twice in one morning.

Ray scrutinised the cleared ground from the car park area, then from the hill above and finally from the edge of the oak wood to the north. It was an interesting place, carefully chosen centuries ago by folk in a close-knit community. Folk who thought of their dead as simply shifting into another world that was as close to the living as a tree to its fallen autumn leaves. But there were no remains of shrines or other monuments anywhere to be seen. If it had been a Christian site there would have been a church. Had there been a pagan temple here built of wood, he wondered? Had the Christians destroyed it?

The longer he studied the hillside and the view – the oak wood, the hilltop ringfort and tumulus, Jack's farm eight hundred metres away, the distant fields and wild moorland escarpments – the more he felt the hours were shaping themselves into one of those extraordinary days. The feeling crept over him like an emotional ambush and refused to give him up. He'd had a few of those days before; days that were turning points in his life.

Jack Boothroyd's comment, about the victims running back in, bothered him profoundly. It made no sense. Even if, as Al had suggested, the men were in a state of confused panic they would surely run away from the flames, not towards them. The state of the two bodies suggested to Ray that a conscious choice may have been made – to run into certain danger away from something else. Who or what was it, Ray wondered, that had scared them so much?

He returned to Martin. Al was taking photographs at the northern edge of the site and out of hearing.

"You know, Martin, burial sites throughout history were always specially chosen. No matter how far back you go, it's always the case. These are someone's ancestors lying here, who brought their people through all kinds of crises. The place they were buried – this hillside – must have had special significance. It must be connected to Pen Crags village. And maybe to Ludd's Castle."

"What are you getting at?" Martin sounded impatient.

Ray knew his theorising irritated his colleague. But you couldn't always have everything in black and white.

"I'm trying to empathise. To build up my understanding of this place. To let intuitions come through. I've a feeling things are going to get complicated."

"I don't see how this so-called understanding is going to help us figure out who chased those detectorists away," Martin said with an air of exasperation. "But then I'm merely a rationalist. However, the rationalist has found a bit of hard evidence." He pointed to part of the cleared area close to the most southerly of the detectorists' dug holes. "Two sets of footprints running like hell. Look at the length of the strides!"

"You're right," Ray agreed. "Those guys began their flight from here. What scared them happened here. Will you ask Al to photograph the prints?"

"They disappear once they reach the long grass," Martin said. "But we can assume those guys ran straight back to their vehicle and drove away fast."

"They must have been in a right state to leave everything behind." Ray said thoughtfully. "Not even to take the gold torque."

"Which is that?" Martin asked.

Ray pointed the item out among Al's bagged-up grave goods.

"I thought you didn't know about history?" Martin said accusingly.

"I don't," Ray replied. "I'm learning."

"Maybe the Pen Crags people threatened those detectorist guys at gunpoint?" Martin conjectured.

"Maybe. But it'll be tough to prove unless we find spent ammo. Have you looked?"

"Everywhere. You?"

"Of course. But the gunpoint idea is possible."

Ray was startled by a sudden movement on the hillside above the excavation site. A mat of the previous year's dead bracken lifted up like a large garage door, as if an invisible presence had raised it from the earth. Then it was slammed back down with a stupendous WHACK! For a few moments, the air seemed to crackle with a fierce charge of energy. Ray felt the skin on his neck prickle.

"Did you see that?" he exclaimed.

"What?" Martin looked mystified.

Ray gestured towards the hillside, then realised Martin was still preoccupied with the footprints. Al was equally oblivious, plodding up the hillside to the north for a panoramic longshot. Ray stared at the hill slope on the far side of the cleared ground. The bracken was still, as if nothing had happened. The air was normal again. It hadn't been a dust devil, he'd seen plenty of them. Had it been some kind of warning?

Something had scared the two metal detectorists and, Ray realised, whatever it was it might not have been human. He knew there were some very spooky tales attached to the area, particularly to Ludd's Castle. But he didn't mention anything to Martin.

"I think that's pretty much it for now," he said. "But I've a feeling we'll be back here before long."

"Well, we've got a crime scene," Martin commented as the three men returned to the Volvo with the bagged-up evidence. "But we haven't much of a picture."

"It'll take shape," Ray replied. "These things can grow, even if, at the beginning, you've only got confusion. These cases do develop legs that you can follow into surprising places. You just have to stay open to everything."

* * *

In the basement of the large house they called Low Rowan Hall, which stood to the northern end of Pen Crags village, a tall figure in a dark hooded jacket stood deep in meditation. He rested his hands on an ancient altar stone, which was supported by four stone pillars in the darkest unlit corner of the room.

The basement was illuminated by tallow lamps, placed in niches along the walls. Most of the lamps were unlit, which gave the space the appearance of a cave. The figure at the altar stood motionless, as if he was part of the darkness itself.

Owain could sense the energy rising as he consciously drew it up from the earth into the stones of the ancient altar. He could feel it filling him and his power growing, giving him the strength of many men, enabling him to keep his nerve through the trials to come and to facilitate his inner journeying.

The first moves had been made. He would need to hone every aspect of his hard-won skills to keep control of what had begun. He would need presence of mind and unshakeable resolve. The ancestors would guide him to the limits of their awareness, but he must be sure not to claim any achievement as his own.

He removed his hands from the altar. His body and mind were prepared. Feeling almost weightless and filled with a clear sense of his mission he silently crossed the room and left the basement. The flames of the nearest tallow lamps flickered and danced, catching the drift from the charged air above the altar.

3

Martin was working at his computer in the detectives' first-floor office at HQ, typing up the report of the morning's investigation, when Ray hurried in.

"Those metal detectorists have been identified," he announced with a smile of satisfaction, "so that's a bit of progress. Evidently they're a couple of familiar faces – not from our area, I should add – known for knocking off copper from closed-down factories and for handling all manner of stolen industrial goods. They've both done time. They're also suspected of nicking artefacts from archaeological sites." He laughed. "Can't say they lacked initiative!" He waited for Martin's question.

"How did they die?"

"What would you have thought? Logically."

Martin didn't enjoy Ray's inclination to be constantly challenging him, but he went along with it.

"The most obvious cause would be from burns. Or from organ failure like Al said. Or a combination of both."

"You're right, of course. There was no evidence of violent blows or bullet wounds."

Ray lapsed into silence, but Martin knew his colleague well enough to sense there was more. "Is there a but?"

"Yes, I'm afraid I've a doubt." Ray paused. "I have to wonder if they had to die at all."

Martin sighed quietly. It was another of Ray's agonised wrestlings, but as he’d seen for himself, they sometimes led to the solving of difficult cases. He forced a smile. "Tell me more."

Ray eased himself back in his chair. It was anecdote time, Martin realised.

"When I was a young uniformed officer I was called to a case where an elderly spinster had died in a house fire. Neighbours told me she had appeared in her yard shouting for help, but had rushed back into the house again to rescue her cat. No one could get to her. She died of severe burns. The cat escaped by jumping through a shattered window." Ray lapsed into silence, preoccupied with his recollections.

"You're saying she didn't have to die?" Martin prompted.

"I can't get away from the possibility that these cases have similarities." Ray admitted. "The case of the spinster gave me a couple of sleepless nights. Then I realised her fear of the fire had been cancelled out by her selfless love for the cat. I'm wondering if something similar – a huge emotional counter-force – happened to those two detectorists."

He's building castles in the air, Martin thought. "Maybe we shouldn't take Jack's word for what happened."

"You saw the bodies."

Yes, indeed. So he had.

It was Martin's turn to fall silent. "Okay," he said eventually, "they went back in. They were more scared of something else than they were of the fire. But we don't know what."

Ray took a deep breath. "I've a hunch that if we can discover the reason, it may be close to becoming a murder inquiry."

* * *

That afternoon Ray and Martin sat at a large table laden with document wallets and papers in Tony Danby's office in the university archaeology department.

"Why are we here?" Martin asked, revealing faint irritation.

"For clarification," Ray replied. "And because I'm curious. I'd like to know why the archaeologists didn't show up today."

Their conversation was cut short when Tony breezed in, introduced himself, dumped the document wallets on the floor and sat opposite his visitors. "Sorry to keep you waiting," he said. "Bit chaotic here at the moment."

"Mr. Danby," Ray began, "I understand you're in charge of the excavation at Ludd's Castle."

"The dig is focused on a Celtic burial ground on the hillside below Ludd's Castle – that's the ringfort enclosure on the top of the hill. And Charles Bellingham was the archaeologist in charge. Charles suffered a stroke yesterday and is in hospital. I'm the project's senior archaeologist in his absence. However, the dig has now been suspended," Tony clarified.

Martin made notes while Ray leaned back in his chair and studied the archaeologist.

"Well that's cleared up at least four points already." Ray paused before asking his next question. He wouldn't have asked it at all but for his nagging doubts about the detectorists' deaths. "What caused Mr Bellingham's stroke?"

"No idea," Tony said. "It happened so fast. Everyone else had gone and we were alone on site. I was turning the uni's van around as we were about to leave."

"You didn't see anything unusual?"

Martin continued making notes, looking increasingly perplexed by Ray's line of questioning. Ray leaned forward, hoping he would be given a clue.

Tony thought for a moment. "No... nothing at all. I heard a cry through my open window and saw Charles hit the ground. My attention was entirely focused on him. Why do you ask?"

"Just curious, Mr. Danby. I like to examine all the possibilities." Ray leaned back in his chair. "So you've no theories about the stroke?"

Tony hesitated. "I... I think he was very stressed."

"Why was that?"

"A group of young men from Pen Crags warned us off. They made threats. They said the site was theirs, though it's in Stone Clough parish."

"Ah, yes," Ray nodded, "I've heard something along those lines already."

"Might Mr. Bellingham have felt his life was in danger?" Martin asked.

Tony fell silent for a moment, weighing his reply. "I suppose it's a possibility. The whole ugly business began when Charles received a death threat via an anonymous phone call. At the time he didn't seem to take it all that seriously. Then the following day we had the intimidating visit of these young men from Pen Crags parish. But Charles faced them down and flatly refused to abandon the dig."

Martin made notes and seemed to have no more questions. Ray decided to change tack.

"Do the names Peter Ford, or James Cooke mean anything to you?" he asked.

Tony's features registered immediate concern. "I've heard those names far too often over the last five years. They're known nighthawks."

Ray was confused. "What's a nighthawk?"

"It's a term applied to an unsavoury minority of metal detectorists who steal items from archaeological sites at night. Valuable grave goods like jewellery and weapons. Why do you ask?"

"Seems those two guys were busy robbing your site last night. But don't worry. As far as we know they didn't get away with a single item."

"You arrested them?" Tony asked hopefully.

"I'm afraid that wasn't possible," Ray replied. "They both died in a car accident after leaving the scene." In response to Tony's look of surprise, Ray elaborated. "It appears they fled for reasons so far unknown, leaving their metal detectors and these objects behind."

Ray got to his feet and took evidence bags from a large holdall. He placed the bags on the table in front of Tony. The contents included the gold torque, finger rings, brooches, bracelets, pendants and jewel-encrusted sword and dagger hafts.

"In your opinion are these items likely to have come from your archaeological excavation?"

Tony examined the objects in the evidence bags. "At a quick glance I'd say they look like typical Iron Age grave goods. We've found similar examples at the dig already. The trouble with these items is we don't know the precise level the nighthawks found them on. Are they third, second, or first century BC? All we can do now is guess. It's very unsatisfactory."

"I'm grateful to you, Mr. Danby," Ray said. "Not least for opening my eyes to the destruction these guys cause. We may need to call on your expertise again in the future." He returned the evidence bags to the holdall. "You'll get all these items back in due course."

"I'd be pleased to advise whenever and wherever I can to reduce the threat of nighthawking," Tony replied with passion. "It's theft and should carry a custodial sentence long enough to be a deterrent to anyone who thinks it's a way to make easy money. They're destroying our country's past by these acts of criminal vandalism."

"Can you describe for us how the excavation went, so we can get a clear idea of the order of events?" Ray asked with an inviting smile.

"It was 9.30 in the morning on the Monday before last," Tony began. "Charles and I were studying a geophysics survey of the excavation site. The survey was very promising and was the main reason we got the go-ahead to excavate. The site was a flat area of pasture half way up the side of a high grass-covered hill, which was crowned by a Bronze Age tumulus.

"We could also see the remains of a ringfort, four hundred metres south of the tumulus on the western edge of the hilltop. The ringfort was called Ludd's Castle. The hilltop gave way to high moorland that stretched eastwards into the distance.

"Charles, at fifty-five, was the senior archaeologist. I was his junior colleague by ten years. We had worked together on several digs and knew each other well. We had reconnoitred the site the previous year, but now funding had come through, this was our first official visit to what we hoped would become a fascinating dig." Tony paused. "Shall I go on?"

"Please continue, Mr. Danby," Ray said encouragingly. "If you don't mind, I'd like a blow-by-blow account of the time you spent on the dig. I need to get my head around the details."

Martin's heart sank. He had been relegated to note-taker for the duration. He dutifully opened his notebook as Tony began his account of events.

"Charles told me it was thanks to Robert Moorhouse we were there at all, as he was the only local historian to mention the existence of a Celtic burial ground. You would never know it was there from the appearance of the hillside. Whatever we might think of Victorian amateur archaeologists Moorhouse was an unrivalled source of local knowledge.

"The decayed bank of the ancient ringfort was visible from the burial ground and we felt it was a pity we couldn't excavate Ludd's Castle while we were there. Moorhouse was right, it did contain a building. And it might have been a pagan temple, as he thought. Charles wanted to track down the missing stones Moorhouse found, as he felt sure someone must still have them. We hoped the dig might jog a few local memories, though it had been a long time since Moorhouse's day."

"Was the Moorhouse excavation a large-scale affair?" Ray asked. "Or was he just up there on his own with a wheelbarrow and spade?"

"Charles told me Moorhouse had just started digging the week before he died." Tony pulled a relieved face. "At least he didn't get the chance to mess the place up with random trenches."

"Wasn't Moorhouse's death supposed to be a bit of a mystery?" Ray asked.

"Local folk are full of hair-raising tales. My wife and I were dining at the Packhorse Inn in Stone Clough one evening last June, when I made the mistake of mentioning Moorhouse's name to the landlord. He told me a ridiculous story about the man being killed by a demon that had been raised by magicians in the nearby village of Pen Crags, as a punishment for breaking some ancient taboo or other." Tony pulled a dismissive face. "We'll never know for sure how the man died. All that's certain is he met his end alone, out on the Pen Crags moors."

"The fellow sounds like he should be the subject of a gothic novel!" Ray commented drily.

"A Dark Tale of Sorcery and Thwarted Hopes by Emily Headstone!" Ray and Martin joined in Tony's laughter.

Martin found he was enjoying writing these notes. It was a welcome change to the urban routine of drugs' crime and domestic squalor. At last, he thought, something different!

Tony described the arrival of their team of four younger professionals: Marcus and Nigel who were freelance archaeologists, Annette and Sue from the university.

"A large expanse of wild grasses had been mown and a digger from Stone Clough had begun to strip the topsoil from a marked-out area. We watched the activity, feeling the nervous excitement of a new project about to begin.

"We set up a finds' tent, with trestle tables, folding chairs and trays for artefacts. Charles spread the geophysics survey on one of the tables and we gathered around to study it. Charles and I both thought the survey showed a disturbance pattern consistent with Celtic cemeteries elsewhere and the site could be a rare survival from the ancient Celtic kingdom of Elmet."

"By Elmet you mean West Yorkshire?" Ray asked.

"Pretty much," Tony confirmed. "Though the precise boundaries of ancient Elmet will forever be uncertain. We felt we were lucky to be excavating a site which we hoped would date back into pre-Roman times. I must admit we were excited, anticipating amazing pre-Christian grave goods.

"Marcus thought that if we found a chariot burial that would surely clinch future funding. He mentioned the discovery of the one at Ferrybridge, which proved they weren't all found in East Yorkshire."

"Was Ferrybridge in ancient Elmet?" Martin asked.

"I explained it was hard to be certain of boundaries in the Celtic Iron Age. It may have been Parisi territory like much of the old East Riding. Or it may have belonged to the Brigantes. I said we were well into Brigantian territory here and we were hoping for high quality finds. But perhaps not any chariot burials! If, for no other reason, than the chalk land of the East Yorkshire Wolds was less destructive of wheeled vehicles!

"Charles thought the dig could almost certainly offer a career-enhancing experience. Some of the team should get the chance to write papers on the work they did there. As we were talking Charles's mobile rang. He answered, listened for a moment, then put the phone away. He made no comment, but I thought he seemed troubled.

"As soon as the four younger team members had left the tent to begin marking out trial trenches, Charles closed the tent flap and told me he'd had an anonymous call. He had no idea how the caller had got his number. A muffled male voice had said if he valued his life he should stop the excavation and leave."

"Extraordinary!" Ray exclaimed, leaning forward with sudden interest. "How did you handle this?"

"I asked what Charles intended to do and he said he'd carry on with the dig. He felt he owed it to the country, the funders and the team to keep going."

"A brave decision," Ray stated solemnly. "Did he have any idea who the caller could be?"

"I asked Charles if he'd been making enemies and if someone was trying to sabotage his career. But he didn't think that was possible, because he'd been writing a book on the Celtic diaspora and hadn't had contact with anyone for months, apart from his editor and publisher.

"I wondered if it could be someone from earlier, when he was lecturing, but he couldn't think of anyone, saying he thought it was just some crank. I asked if he was going to tell the others, but he thought it wasn't necessary. I pointed out that if something nasty happened what would he say in his defence?

"He relented and agreed to tell them."

4

After a break for coffee Tony continued his story. Ray was particularly keen to learn if the threat had the effect of undermining the unity of the team.

"We assembled in the finds' tent where Charles spoke to us. As he described the situation our mood became increasingly sombre. He presented us with a simple choice: to stay, or to leave. Marcus spoke for everyone, saying they all needed to work and they needed as much hands-on experience as they could get. Everyone wanted to stay."

"You didn't consider contacting us?" Ray asked.

"Actually, we did discuss it. But we thought the police wouldn't get involved because it wasn't a crime scene. As Marcus put it, it was just some anonymous nutcase who hated archaeologists. Nigel suggested the guy must have failed his degree, which caused much laughter and the sombre mood lifted.

"We opened two trial trenches. Burials were found in both, but there was no time to examine them. The remains were photographed and the trenches covered over for the night. As the daylight began to fade we headed for our vehicles. I think we all experienced a similar sense of relief. Nobody had interrupted us. Perhaps it was just an empty threat after all."

Ray studied Tony's body language, the tension in his face and hands. "I get the impression that the nutcase notion was fairly soon abandoned. Am I right, Mr Danby?"

"I'm sad to say you are. Next day we all arrived at the same time, parked up and walked the short distance to the excavation site where we got one hell of a shock. The trial trenches had been backfilled and the finds' tent ripped to shreds. In the centre of the cleared area a roughly-painted board was nailed to a wooden post. It read: IF YOU VALUE YOUR PEACE OF MIND LEAVE THE DEAD ALONE.

Martin looked up from his notes. "That's hard evidence of harrassment. It's something tangible we could have used."

"We were shocked and not considering evidence, I'm afraid. My first rational thought was to tackle Charles about our legal status. He confirmed the university had approached both parish and district councils and everyone was happy for the dig to go ahead. I recall Marcus interrupted us, saying that someone definitely wasn't happy and he was watching them approach that very moment.

"They appeared so suddenly, as if they'd risen from the earth. A group of seven figures, with scarves across their lower faces and the hoods of their jackets shadowing their eyes, were walking towards us from the direction of the oak wood. Two of the group had huge mastiffs held on heavy choke chains."

"The original dogs of war," Ray interrupted, " a crucial element in battle from pre-Roman to mediaeval times. Still used in some countries by police and military."

Martin paused in his note taking, surprised as so often before by the range of his partner's knowledge.

"The dogs were truly terrifying, but Charles seemed completely unfazed. He told the group who he was and that he was in charge of the excavation. He asked them to state their business.

"An exceptionally tall and powerfully-built man stepped forward. He was evidently their spokesman. He told us that nothing but trouble could come from disturbing the dead. Charles, to his credit, kept his nerve. He asked the man who he thought he was to make such claims. The spokesman replied that he was the voice of his people and the chosen representative of their sacred wishes. Charles countered that we had every right to be there, that the required notices were printed in Stone Clough parish magazine and on the district council's website. Everyone who needed to know had been informed. It was too late to make objections.

"The spokesman replied that they were from Pen Crags and this was their ancestors' burial ground. He claimed they were the custodians of the sacred dead and that outsiders were not allowed to trespass on their graves. He said our very presence was an act of defilement. I think we were all aware that we were facing fanatics, whose hostility was palpable.

"He said we should let the dead rest in their otherworld. Disturbing them was a breach of ancient law and would have serious consequences. Charles challenged him, asking what ancient laws were these? The man replied that they followed the laws of Hywel Dda; removing items from the dead was sacrilege and would have repercussions.

"I told him that under English law he had no right to challenge the decisions that had been legally made regarding the site. I added that I thought it was time for them to leave. Marcus and Nigel, meanwhile, had taken out their phones and had photographed the hostile group. 'You're on record now, buddy,' I remember Marcus saying. 'This is going viral.'

"The tall man appeared unperturbed. He said we should leave now and that was his final warning. The group departed, melting away among the trees of the oak wood."

"You should have come to us sooner," Ray advised. "We might have been able to talk some sense into those guys. I don't think Hywel Dda would have much weight in a modern court."

"With hindsight I can see that we should. But you have to understand we were all a bit unnerved. Charles and I worried that setbacks might compromise the funding. To add to our feelings of confusion Marcus and Nigel found they had nothing on their phones. For a moment we could have believed we'd been trying to photograph ghosts!

"Charles said if anyone wanted to leave the project he completely understood their position. No one should have to go through a situation like that in the pursuit of lawful activities. If they wanted to move on with their careers they could count on him for a reference. He said he would speak to the department, as they may want to make an official complaint. 'Who do they complain to?' Nigel asked angrily. 'The ancient dead of Pen Crags? Or maybe just summon the spirit of Hywel Dda.'

"No one wanted to leave. They didn't see why a bunch of thugs claiming to be into some weird ancestor cult should make one scrap of difference to what the team was doing. They were seeking new knowledge and it was the public's democratic right to share in it. Sue raised the point that the group from Pen Crags claimed the land was theirs – why would they lie? Annette thought they could at least have a moral right to protect the sanctity of their ancestors.

"It seemed to me that some official somewhere must have slipped up and the longer the matter remained unresolved the greater the risk the team would fragment. I decided to drive to Stone Clough and find someone who could explain how this mess had come about."

* * *

"I parked in the village main street and decided the church of St John the Evangelist might be a safer bet than the local post office. When I entered the church I found Reverend Sykes, the vicar, arranging booklets on a table near the door. I explained the situation and hoped for the best.

"The vicar said he was sorry to hear of our problems, but he knew the people in Pen Crags were not consulted about the excavation. He added that it must have taken them completely by surprise.

"I asked him what our dig had to do with Pen Crags when the site was in Stone Clough parish. He replied that it had everything to do with it. Pen Crags folk claimed it was the burial site of their ancestors, but the irony was no one would know for certain unless the excavation could continue and find confirming evidence.

"I said I was getting the impression there was conflict between Stone Clough and Pen Crags. Reverend Sykes agreed. He gave me a recent example, when young Pen Crags stockmen diverted the stream that fed the field troughs in Stone Clough village. The source of the stream was on Pen Crags land, but it was taken as an act of hostility by the people here. They retaliated by giving their permission for the excavation.

"I asked the vicar how long this feud had been going on and was surprised by his reply."

The detectives exchanged interested glances. "You're going to tell me this conflict has a thousand years' history, aren't you?" Ray commented.

"Apparently so. Reverend Sykes believed it started when Athelstan tried to take the remains of old Elmet by force in the mid-920s. Some remote places like Cragg Vale and Pen Crags fought back.

Ray laughed. "Saxon and Celt. On the football field and in village England. What you're saying doesn't surprise me. Some say it's taught. Others that it's in the blood."

"The vicar told me there was also a long-running dispute about the precise position of the boundary between the two parishes, Stone Clough claiming the burial ground was in their parish, while Pen Crags asserted the opposite. 'I could hardly believe what I was hearing!' Reverend Sykes exclaimed.

"Surely, I protested, the boundary was clearly defined on the Ordnance Survey map? Not so, was the vicar's reply. It's shown following alternative routes on different maps and nobody seems to agree on the definitive boundary. The dispute could end up in court, but neither side wants to make the first move in case they lose and have the costs to pay."

"They'd rather feud than sort it out," Ray remarked. "So it inevitably becomes a way of life."

"The vicar told me he was doing his best in Stone Clough to make them see reason. He handed me a booklet entitled STONE CLOUGH – A VILLAGE HISTORY. It was twenty-four pages in length and divided into chapters, one of which was headed ANCIENT RIVALRIES and another THE DISPUTED PARISH BOUNDARY.

"I asked him if he was the anonymous author? He replied it had begun as a labour of love, but had changed into something of a penance. I bought six copies."

* * *

"When I briefed the team I was overwhelmed with questions. Was there a feature on the dig in the local papers? Had some influential bigwig muzzled the press? Was it the funny handshake folk – all in the same lodge and not a Pen Crags' Celt among them? Charles said nobody the department spoke with had rung the tocsin. The geophysics survey went ahead and no one came storming up from Pen Crags to try to stop it. And no one in Stone Clough breathed a syllable about any enmities.

"I handed round the booklets, saying the problem was deeper and more complex than any outsider could have realised. Charles added that the dig was still official and he wanted to carry on, 'in spite of Hywel Dda'."

5

"Marcus had suggested someone should visit Pen Crags and 'try to talk sense into those freaks'. No one volunteered, so Marcus and I, in my four-by-four Wrangler, drove through the winding lanes into Pen Crags parish. High on the surrounding hillsides the shepherds and cattlemen watched us, appearing to make a blatant point of their lack of concealment. One of them must have blown a dog whistle, which set the entire canine population of the parish barking at once. This achieved, the stockmen melted invisibly into the hillsides.

"As we entered the village we had the disconcerting impression that the people had hushed the dogs, stopped work in farmyards and gardens, closed windows, doors and gates and disappeared into the darkened depths of sculleries and back parlours. In no time at all it seemed the village had become like a place suddenly abandoned.