The Devil's Moon by Peter Guttridge Page A

Dyke.’
    â€˜Appropriate.’
    â€˜It fits, doesn’t it, for the author of
Magic
? His cottage is part of a big farming spread. Bits of the main farmhouse go back to the Middle Ages; most of it is around four hundred years old. The Templars owned it for a century or so. The National Trust have it now.’
    â€˜Lots of legends surrounding it, I suppose,’ Watts said.
    â€˜Got it in one. But about your dad. If he had been any kind of heavyweight on that occult scene I would have known about it. And he would probably have mentioned it to me on the odd occasions we talked about my well-known past proclivities.’
    â€˜Unless he was part of AA,’ Fi said, dropping into the chair beside Watts.
    Caspar gave her a nod. ‘True.’
    â€˜My dad liked a drink but—’
    â€˜Not that AA,’ Caspar said, tilting his glass at Watts and taking another sip of his wine. ‘This is something else.’ He looked into the garden. ‘And here’s the very man to tell you about it.’
    Watts turned round in his chair. The man in the paint-splattered pullover was walking through the garden, ignoring the rain, cigarette clamped between his teeth, asthma inhaler in his hand.
    â€˜Our lodger, Nick,’ Fi said. ‘Lunch can now be served.’

NINE
    I n the incident room Gilchrist stood by the window looking up at the gloomy sky. Her hastily assembled team clacked on computer keyboards and worked the phones behind her. There were three constables and three civilian support workers in an office that used to seat two. She’d never run a team before and would have been panicking if she hadn’t felt so bloody weird.
    She’d read the statements of the four clubbers to see if there was anything there. All heard screams, two claimed to have heard the victim shout out.
    Bilson’s office had been in touch to say the remains of whoever had burned to death in the Wicker Man were too badly damaged for any normal kind of recognition but the pelvic saddle was more or less intact and from that Bilson was concluding the victim was male. DNA samples had been extracted from the bones and the results were being hurried through.
    DS Donald Donaldson came into the room, glad-handing the constables and civilian staff sitting there. He had a cocky, shoulder-rolling walk. Gilchrist nodded and smiled and he joined her at the window. They shook hands.
    He was shorter than her but a bear of a man who seemed too big for any space he occupied. He was a fanatical body-builder so always looked as if he was bursting out of his clothes. Gilchrist suspected steroid use but if he wanted to wreck himself, that was his choice.
    â€˜What is it, Don-Don?’
    â€˜Well, first off: what do I call you? I’ve been calling you Sarah for the past five years. Do I start calling you ma’am now?’
    â€˜Sarah’s fine,’ she said.
    â€˜OK. So what do you want me to be doing?’
    She turned to face him. ‘I’d like you to check the witness statements Constable Heap took on the beach. See if anything stands out.’
    â€˜Heap, eh?’
    She caught his tone. ‘What’s wrong with Constable Heap?’
    â€˜The pocket policeman? Nothing. A bit too arty-farty for my taste. These university types usually are.’
    â€˜Nevertheless, he’s a member of this team.’
    â€˜As you say,’ Donaldson said, turning away. Gilchrist craned her neck back out of the window. From here she could just see the smouldering pile of wood and wicker on the beach. The tide was coming in. Within half an hour it would be dispersed. She hoped scenes of crime and forensics hadn’t missed anything.
    There were still people loitering near the remains. She recalled the wedding she’d been to on the moors above Hebden Bridge. The burning Wicker Man had been quite a sight.
    She pondered for a moment. Such a sight that if you were the person who set the Brighton one