The Dark Rites of Cthulhu (21 page)

“My men are airtight, Hookham’s too. If there is a leak to the press I’ll have guts for garters myself sir. You don’t need to worry about that.”

Strange met his stare for a few moments with one equally as steely, then he smiled. “Jolly good Robson. And what do you think your next plans are?”

“I’d like to go through this, first.” Robson indicated the brown paper folder Strange had handed him
earlier. It was thick with information on the Highgate Vampire debacle from earlier in the decade. “And then I’d like to see what else our boys found at the scene.”

“And the cause of death, of course,” Strange said.

“Of course,” Robson said, and retrieved the folder. “If that will be…”

“Just that the owner of the crypt is a very wealthy, respectable fellow. Try not to step on any toes out there.” Strange rose from his seat. “Keep me appraised of the progress, and remember: mum’s the word!”

Robson left Strange’s office, turned left down the corridor and passed three doors before arriving back at his own. His office was far less regal than Strange’s, with a threadbare carpet and a metal, laminate-topped desk. His filing cabinets were steel, not oak, and screeched and complained at their use on a good day. He retrieved his mug from the top of one of them and swigged a mouthful of cold coffee. He dropped the folder on his desk, poured the leftover coffee dregs in the wastebasket and poured a new cup-f from the percolator on the table behind his desk.

He took a heavy swig, washing away the taste of the last cold, sour mouthful and sat, feeling the mug’s warmth fill his hands as he stared at the brown, dog-eared folder. He put the cup down, cleared a space on his desk by moving his ashtray and case notes, and pulled the file forward, opening it with distaste.

There were lots of newspaper articles, going back to the 1960s. These he skimmed through, seeing lurid headlines like:
‘Caught on The Moonlight Trail of the Highgate Vampire!’ ‘Ritual Sex Act and Cat Sacrifice,’
(this article made him squirm uncomfortably), and
‘Does a Vampyr Walk in Highgate?’
He didn’t want to read them, but had to. So, he reached into his pocket for his cigarettes, lit a new one, and got down to reading tabloid trash.

Five cigarettes and two mugs of coffee later, he had the gist of what had happened in Highgate. A group of local young people interested in the occult had taken to prowling Highgate late at night, one of them claiming to have seen a strange figure, another claiming that this figure was in fact ‘A King Of Vampires.’ There had been vandalism, mass vampire hunts, desecration of corpses, all perpetrated by a group of idiots looking for publicity. One of them had gone to prison three years earlier, in 1974, for damaging memorials and interfering with dead remains, and after that, the crackpots had disappeared off of the radar.

“This is nothing to do with our case,” he said aloud, wanting to give truth to his thoughts by saying them. He hadn’t been around during the Highgate Vampire phenomenon, and from what he read, Strange was right in not wanting a resurgence of that sordid, long standing affair now that it was dead in the water. Still he took his notepad from his jacket pocket, noted down the two principal antagonists in the affair, and thought to send someone to snoop around and see what they were up to.

Just as he was putting the notebook back in his jacket, his door knocked, followed by Jessup bustling in.

“Hey sir!” Jessup said. Full of enthusiasm, he held a large brown envelope in one hand and his coat in the other. He closed the door behind him with his foot.

Robson indicated the vacant seat facing his desk and Jessup draped his coat on the back of it and sat down.

“We have the photos as requested,” he said with a beaming smile on his face. He leant over and placed the envelope atop Robson’s Highgate material.

If he was a dog I’d pat his head and say ‘good boy,’
Robson thought, then, “Good work Jessup. Anything from the scene?”

“Funny you should say that sir,” Jessup said. He patted his jacket pockets and removed his notepad from the inside one. “Just hold on one second,” he continued and leafed through it.

Robson took the opportunity to open the envelope and pour the contents out. There were six large glossy photographs, three of the Highgate corpses at different angles and three of the women’s and man’s mutilations up close. Teenagers. Barely more than children really. Just what did they—

“Ah, this is it,” Jessup said.

Robson looked up from the photographs. The other man was reading from his notebook.

“Two twelve-volt car batteries were found in the bushes near the scene. Six cigarette butts, Pall Mall brand. The batteries are in the Met Lab right now – they’re looking for fingerprints… And that’s it.”

“Car batteries, hmmm,” Robson said. “There were no signs of torture apart from the flesh wounds and ligature marks, were there?”

“You thinking car batteries to the genitals, sir?”

“Hmmm, possibly. Just thinking aloud.” Robson scanned the photos again. “Anything proving identification? Missing Persons Bureau contacted?”

“No on the first. Their office said it’s too early to tell on the second,” Jessup said. “Oh, and Hookham says he’ll have his report on your desk later this afternoon.”

Robson tapped his hand on one of the female close-ups, realized he was tapping the breasts and moved his hand. “Fancy a drive, Jessup?”

“Of course, sir. Where are you thinking?”

“See if you can find me a phone directory,” Robson said, “And we’ll take it from there.”

There were four De Racine’s in the Greater London Directory, and after discreet phone enquiries Robson found one that did indeed have ancestors interred in Highgate Cemetery. Robson played it cool on the phone, friendly and professional, and told the man there had been some vandalism and could he make a visit today?

Half an hour later he and Jessup were driving his weathered Ford Anglia through Kensington with Jessup using his A-Z to guide them to Chelsea Crescent.

They found it soon enough, a row of four-storied, white stucco-fronted terraced buildings with neatly trimmed rows of box trees lining the second-floor balconies. Expensive cars dotted the street, including a couple of Rolls Royce’s. Robson realized his car would look a heap beside them.

“Looks nice,” Jessup said.

“Expensive,” Robson replied, and pulled up outside number fifteen.

“You know sir, we could have easily sent one of our uniforms to deal with this.” Jessup said.

“I don’t think so,” Robson said. He pulled his keys from the ignition and left the car.

A few minutes later, after knocking briefly and being let in by the butler, an elderly, hollow cheeked man with wispy white hair, the pair stood waiting in an oak-panelled foyer. The room was opulent, with ancestral portraits lining the walls and thick tortoiseshell carpet underfoot. The butler knocked on the door to their right, announced the two, and then made his precarious way up the stairs facing the front door.

The door opened, and Robson was taken aback at the apparition that appeared there.

Tall, very thin in his brown tweed suit, the man’s skin bore a yellowish cast to it. His eyes were sunken, dark with circles as if he hadn’t slept in days. His thick black hair was combed back, his forehead lined with veins, his nose hawkish above a black goatee surrounding thick, red lips. The ghoulish face smiled, and Robson cleared his throat.

“Mr. De Racine?” he asked, and stepped forward, proffering his hand. De Racine accepted, shaking back with a warm, slightly moist grip.

De Racine said, “
yes, and hello,” in a slightly accented voice. He nodded at Jessup, and ushered both men through the door.

Another oak panelled room followed, this one lined with books. Recesses between the shelves bore glass book cabinets, topped with potted plants and Roman busts. Robson was impressed - De Racine had quite some taste. At the centre of the room stood an elaborately carved desk covered in newspapers and books. A freshly lit cigarette burned in a silver ashtray on the desk but it was too far away to see the brand.
De Racine walked towards the desk then turned.

“Would you like a refreshment?” he asked, revealing that ghoulish smile again.

“Yes I—”

“No, thank you,” Robson said, interrupting his junior. “We won’t be here long, I just wanted to tell you in person about the vandalism at your family tomb and ask a question or two regarding it.”

“Yes, yes of course. Terrible news that.” De Racine grimaced and leaned his buttocks against his desk. “Were  the bodies in there…interfered with at all?”

Jessup gasped. Robson gave him a look and replied, “No, your ancestors were untouched, if that’s what you mean, just a bit of red paint on the inside. But can you tell me, do you know why the door to the crypt was unlocked?”

De Racine stared at him blankly, then shook his head.

“No, the door should have been locked, but then again, I haven’t been to the family crypt since Uncle Arthur passed some thirty years ago. I assume the council or Highgate’s people will be cleaning up this vandalism?”

Robson, who had turned from De Racine to examine the bookshelves, answered absently. “That’s something you’ll have to take up with them, I’m afraid. This was just a courtesy call really.” He turned back to De Racine and added, “You will have to see about securing that door yourself though.”

De Racine nodded. “Of course, gentlemen. Now, if there is nothing else...?”

“Well sir, he seemed like an okay chap,” Jessup said as he fastened his seatbelt. “What did you think?”

Robson harrumphed and continued staring at De Racine’s front door. “Those books in there, on the shelves…
The Gospel of the Witches, The Key of Solomon
… witches and demonology all over the place. So no, I didn’t think he was an ‘okay chap.’ I think that the man is completely iffy.”

“But do you think he’s connected with the
murders, Sir?”

“That,” Robson removed a hand from the steering wheel and started the engine, “Is something I would love to know.”

When Robson arrived back at his office he found Hookham’s preliminary report waiting for him on his desk. It was short, but not very sweet. Hookham’s notes said the three victims had recently had sexual intercourse, no surprise there, really, and the cause of death, until Hookham could get inside and check further, appeared to be manual asphyxiation. There were no signs this was performed by hand (no telltale bruising) or a rope (no marks indicating such). Hookham was also getting tests done to see if the victims had been under the influence of anything. Murder it surely was, with the killer, or killers, still out there.

And
, Robson thought,
the killer just might possibly be a witchcraft fanatic
. This, and the strange man De Racine, remained heavy on his thoughts for the rest of the day, and after he had gotten home. He spent most of the following day dealing with a rape on the London Underground and interviewing five suspects. It was dark outside when he arrived back at his office and sat down with an exhausted sigh.

To his disgust, Jessup burst in before he even had chance to make coffee.

“Sorry I disappeared earlier sir, but I got a call from Missing Persons over the Highgate matter.”

“Oh?” this perked up Robson’s interest.

“Nothing on the man yet, but it shouldn’t be long now. The blonde girl is called Deborah Wilson, the brunette, Tammy Brinkley.” He rushed the words out in his excitement. “And another thing, sir. I asked Missing Persons whether they had any reports of girls around that same age reported missing the past few days. One name, Loretta Thomas came up. So I phoned her parents, and she knows Deborah Wilson.”

Robson bit his bottom lip and thought for a few moments. “Jessup, Strange be damned about us pussyfooting around. Get some men watching that crypt at
Highgate. Once that’s done, meet me at my car.”

Jessup nodded. “You have a hunch sir? Where are we going?”

Robson stood and retrieved his coat from behind his chair. ”To pay De Racine another visit.”

It was a chilly night in Kensington, with a layer of mist carpeting the streets Robson turned down towards De Racine’s. He pitied the three men on duty at Highgate, and while Jessup hummed to himself beside him, he pitied himself for coming out without a cigarette. He turned onto De Racine’s street and noted that all the houses were illuminated apart from De Racine’s.

“Looks like he’s out,” Jessup said, “think we should wait?”

“No, I think we should go right to the door,” Robson replied. He parked a few doors down from the silver Rolls Royce outside De Racine’s house, hugged himself from the cold as he and Jessup approached the door.

Robson knocked, waited a while,
then knocked again. Getting no reply, he rang the bell.

Not looking good,
he thought,
and perhaps
—

He heard bolts removed and a key turn. The next thing, the wizened butler answered holding a large brass candlestick holder. The illumination was meagre. The man looked nervous.