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  ‘I think there’s secrets hidden in them files, Guv,’ said Annie. ‘Nasty secrets. I got the strong impression that Carroll was corrupt – him and others. DS Ken Darby, DI Pat Walsh …’

  ‘Pat Walsh!’ Sam exclaimed. ‘Of course! Carroll mentioned the name Pat in there. It’s got to be Pat Walsh, his old DI. Guv, we’re uncovering something here. If Annie’s right, and they’re both bent coppers from the sixties, then I think there’s more than just coincidence going on here. We should track down Walsh – ten-to-one he can shed some light on what’s happening inside that church right now.’

  ‘Well this is all ‘appening a bit sharpish,’ said Gene.

  ‘You can thank Annie for that, Guv.’

  Gene sneered: ‘Don’t lay it on with a trowel, Tyler.’ He pulled his coat straight and added: ‘Okay. This DI Pat Walsh. Where do we find him?’

  ‘57, Streeling Street.’ It was a uniformed officer standing close by who spoke up. Sam, Annie and Gene turned to look at him. The bobby added: ‘It’s a call that came through right before this one. Mrs Walsh, 57 Streeling Street, reporting a break-in and possible missing person – her husband, Patrick Walsh. Some of the other lads went to see to that one. I got sent here.’

  Sam reacted at once: ‘Let’s get over there, Guv – pronto!’

  He sprinted towards the Cortina where it sat amid the patrol cars, gleaming in the mid-morning sun. Annie ran with him. They leapt in, Sam in the front passenger seat, Annie in the back – and then waited while Gene sauntered arrogantly over, paused to light a cigarette, adjusted the leather strap of his string-back glove, then pretended to forget which pocket he’d put his car keys in. He was not to be rushed – least of all by his minions and flunkeys.

  ‘Come on, come on!’ Annie hissed from the back, glaring through the windscreen at Gene.

  This isn’t a police investigation for Annie, any more than it is for me, Sam thought. Annie’s unearthing her own identity here – and all the dark secrets that identity contains. And as for me – this is the start of the showdown, the final face-off between me and Clive Gould, the murderer of Annie’s father, the Devil in the Dark itself …

  Without warning, Annie leant forward and slammed her fist into the Cortina’s car horn.

  ‘Come on!’ she cried.

  Gene’s expression changed. His cheeks flushed red. A cold, hard light glittered in his eyes. He threw away his barely smoked fag, stomped furiously over to the Cortina, and flung open the rear door.

  ‘Out!’ he barked.

  ‘Oh, let’s just get going, Guv,’ Sam urged him.

  ‘I said, out!’

  Annie glared up at Hunt, and for a moment Sam thought she might suddenly launch herself at him in a ferocious attack. But no. She angrily clambered out of the car and threw her leather handbag down hard on the ground.

  Gene stared into her face and said in a low, dangerous voice: ‘You honked my horn …’

  He flexed his hands, making his black leather driving gloves creak ominously.

  Annie stared right back at him, her mouth pulled tight, her eyes narrow and enraged. Then she picked up her bag and strode away.

  ‘Annie!’ Sam called after her, but her only reaction was to rip aside a cordon of blue police tape as she went.

  Gene watched her go with an expression like a very pissed off lion – then, slowly, clambered into the driving seat next to Sam. Without saying a word, he fired up the engine, brushed a speck of imaginary contamination from the horn, and hit the gas.

  CHAPTER THREE: ONE SPENT CARTRIDGE

  The Cortina howled to a stop outside the bungalow at 57 Streeling Street. There was a patrol car parked by the front drive, inside which a WPC could just be seen, comforting a distressed woman. A PC lurked at the front of the bungalow, licking the tip of a tiny pencil and making notes.

  Gene sat behind the wheel for a moment, staring ahead.

  ‘What’s the story with her, eh, Tyler?’ he asked.

  ‘Annie’s got things on her mind,’ Sam replied, refusing to be drawn into details.

  Gene snorted in contempt: ‘Got things on her mind?! She’s a bird – minds don’t come into it!’ And before Sam could spring to her defence, he added: ‘Do me a big favour, Tyler. Get her sorted.’

  ‘She’s her own person, Guv.’

  ‘In her own little head maybe, but not in my department. Stompin’ about, telling me to get a move on, honkin’ my ruddy horn ...!’ A flame of indignation flickered anew at the memory. ‘I don’t know what her problem is, and frankly I don’t give a stuff. But if you don’t rein your tart in, Tyler, I’m gonna throw her over my knee and give her a damned good slippering. And I may not be speaking metaphorically.’

  ‘Just give her some space, Guv. She’ll be okay.’

  ‘It’s my horn, in my motor!’

  ‘I know, Guv.’

  ‘And I’m the boss! And it’s bloody Sunday and I’m missing The Big Match! Don’t my feelings count for nothing round here?’

  ‘I’ll have a little chat with her later.’

  ‘Do that, Tyler – before I have a little chat with her. And you know how my little chats tend to pan out.’

  And with that, Gene threw open the car door and clambered out. Sam sighed and followed him.

  They crossed to the patrol car. A toothy, rather ineffectual-looking WPC got out.

  ‘I’m trying to comfort Mrs Walsh,’ she whined. ‘But she’s gone a bit crackers.’

  Gene had a look inside the car and was confronted by Mrs Walsh’s face, contorted and mascara-streaked, a bubble of mucus burgeoning in her left nostril as she blubbered and howled.

  ‘Holy Moly, somebody call an exorcist,’ Gene growled out of the corner of his mouth.

  ‘What happened here?’ Sam asked the WPC.

  ‘Mrs Walsh had been away for a few days, visiting her poorly Auntie Janet in London. She came back this morning on the Intercity and found the bungalow wrecked and no sign of her husband. And now she’s panicked and gone mental.’

  Mrs Walsh suddenly banged on the inside of the car window and howled. There was lipstick smeared chaotically over her wrinkled mouth and a stalactite of thick snot wobbling from the tip of her long nose.

  ‘Sprinkle her with holy water,’ suggested Gene. ‘It’ll buck her up or melt her – either way, it can only be an improvement.’

  Hunt marched up the little garden path towards the bungalow, Sam striding along beside him.

  ‘Anything to report?’ he asked the PC at the door, flashing his ID.

  ‘Bit of a mystery, Sir,’ the copper said. He indicated the front door, which was lying flat in the hallway. It had been ripped clear from its hinges. ‘Somebody came in here full wallop. And it’s no better inside. The place has been trashed.’

  ‘And what about Pat Walsh?’ Sam asked. ‘No clue what’s happened to him?’

  ‘Not that I can find,’ shrugged the PC. ‘His missus ain’t being much help, squawking away like that, but to be honest I don’t think she knows nowt anyway.’

  Sam stepped inside the bungalow, walking across the wrecked door to reach the hall. Broken glass crunched under his feet. Pictures had been flung from the walls, windows had been smashed, lampshades hung in shreds about shattered bulbs.

  ‘It’s like a feckin’ whirlwind tore through this gaff,’ muttered Gene, peering about at the wrecked furniture and scattered debris. ‘Or else it was the boys from forensics on one of their piss-ups.’ With the toe of his loafer, he nudged at a carriage clock that lay amid the ruin, its face smashed, its hands twisted. ‘Whoever turned this place over must have been desperate.’

  ‘Yes, Guv – but desperate for what?’ Sam said, pointing into the bedroom. Mrs Walsh’s earrings and necklaces lay discarded all over the bed and floor. ‘Since when did burglars leave the jewellery behind?’

  ‘And what about these?’ Gene said, bending down to scoop up the playing cards scattered about all over the floor. ‘What sort of bloke would break in and leave treasure lik
e this lying about?’

  ‘Playing cards, Guv?’

  ‘Not just any playing cards, Tyler.’

  Gene presented them for Sam to inspect. They were porno cards, each one graced with its very own topless, spread-legged angel. It was all hitched-up denim skirts, brown suede boots, and glossily pouting lips.

  ‘Well I don’t think they belong to Mrs Walsh,’ observed Sam.

  ‘I can’t see that crabby mare putting up with these charmin’ lovelies,’ said Gene, perusing the cards one by one. ‘Gotta be Pat’s contraband, eh. His private stash. Fodder for a crafty J Arthur when the missus is off down the Wavy Line. Can’t blame him for that, a fella needs to stay sane. I mean, be honest, there’s no way he’s going to get the horn looking at her dried-up Boris Karloff boat race every night.’

  ‘Guv, you give whole new depth to the term ‘ungentlemanly’, did you know that?’

  Gene suddenly thrust one of the cards towards Sam’s face. It was the four of clubs, depicting a young woman with straight blonde hair sucking her finger whilst unbuttoning a very tight pair of orange corduroy hotpants.

  ‘Here’s a question, Tyler – and tell me straight: if this bird were your sister … would you be tempted?’

  Sam looked flatly at him for a moment and then said: ‘Guv – have you ever thought about being psychoanalyzed?’

  Gene perused the card: ‘Got a better set of lungs on her than your Flatty Cartwright. Just think what you’re missing.’

  ‘Do you think there’s any chance we could conduct this investigation like professional police officers?’

  ‘Perhaps it’s you what needs his head shrinking,’ Gene said under his breath as he pocketed the cards. ‘A real fella would show at least a scrap of interest.’

  Sam picked his way through yet more debris, finding broken tumblers lying about, and a discarded bottle of Scotch on its side, its contents leaking onto the carpet.

  ‘Let’s try and make sense of all this,’ he said. ‘Scotch bottle – glasses – porno playing cards. And the wife safely out of the way. That tells me Pat had a mate over – a bloke.’

  Gene shrugged: ‘Most like. But that don’t get us too far, does it.’

  ‘It does if that bloke was Pat’s old DCI, Mickey Carroll.’

  Sam was piecing things together in his imagination. He imagined Pat Walsh here on his own, his wife out of the house for a few days. Pat calls Mickey Carroll over, or perhaps Carroll just turns up. They need to talk, to spend time together. They have things on their minds.

  What? What do they have on their minds?

  Was it something to do with Clive Gould? If Annie was right, they had both been in Gould’s pocket back in the sixties. Was something about Gould troubling them? Is that what the two of them wanted to discuss?

  He recalled what Carroll had howled at him in the church: ‘I’m not going to end up like Pat! I’m not going to end up that way!’

  Did they see Gould, just like I saw Gould? Sam thought. He felt a deep sense of conviction that he was thinking along the right lines – a conviction that came from the fact that Carroll and Walsh, like Sam, were caught up in the machinations of the Devil in the Dark.

  Sam took a slow breath, relaxed, and allowed a picture to form in his mind’s eye. Where there was a lack of hard evidence, maybe his imagination, his intuition, his copper’s nose would point the way.

  Walsh had the place to himself. He had things on his mind … things to do with Gould. Carroll came over, because he had worries too. Gould was haunting them both in some way. They were disturbed, frightened. So the two of them sat down here, Walsh and Carroll together, playing cards, drinking. It comforted them. They started talking things through, trying to make sense of whatever it was that was disturbing them, and then …

  Sam turned, looking back into the hallway at the smashed front door, then glanced about at the shattered furniture, the broken windows, the scattered wreckage. Something came crashing in here, roaring through that front door like an express train and turning the whole place upside down. And then what?

  His intuition could not fill in the blank. Whatever happened was beyond his experience to imagine. All he could tell for sure was that Carroll had escaped, but not before he witnessed something happening to Pat Walsh – something awful – something that sent him haring off into that church with a gun in his hand.

  ‘Looky-here, Tyler,’ Gene said. There was a bullet hole in the wall. Gene peered at it for a moment, then hunted about amid the wreckage at his feet. Bending down suddenly, he straightened up again with something held between his thumb and forefinger.

  Sam drew closer and examined it: ‘A spent cartridge.’

  ‘From a pistol. The same pistol Carroll’s got with him in the church, you reckon?’

  ‘It’s possible, Guv. We’d need an official ID from ballistics.’

  ‘Let’s assume for the time being it is from that same gun,’ said Gene, his face pulled into a pinched, pensive expression as he examined the shell. ‘What does this tell us? Did Carroll whack Walsh, is that what happened?’

  ‘I don’t see any blood,’ said Sam.

  ‘No. Neither do I …’ muttered Gene, almost to himself. ‘So – he either fired at Pat Walsh and missed. Or else he fired at somebody else entirely.’

  Sam imagined the bullet passing straight through Gould’s shadowy form. The image made his stomach tighten.

  What weapon will stop Gould? What have I got that can hurt the Devil in the Dark?

  Instinctively, he reached the gold-plated fob watch nestling in his pocket. As his fingers felt across the dented surface of the casing, he willed himself to sense some sort of magic power surging out of it, something that intimated that this simple little pocket watch was in reality a talisman, a weapon, salvation.

  But he felt nothing. Nothing at all.

  CHAPTER FOUR: SLEEPING DOGS

  Monday morning. The overhead strip lights of CID were burning and flickering, bathing A-Division in their unhealthy, cheesy glow. Typewriters clacked, telephones rang, great mounds of paperwork leaned precariously on desks thick with fag ash, unwashed coffee cups and crumpled betting slips.

  Sam strode into the department, and was confronted by the sight of DC Ray Carling lolling about at his desk. Ray was already on his fourth or fifth fag of the morning. He had draped his corduroy jacket on the back of his chair to fully show off his sweat-stained, eggshell-blue nylon shirt in all its unironed glory. His brown kipper tie hung loosely from his collar, and his top buttons were undone enough to reveal a flash of wiry chest hair.

  ‘Morning, Boss,’ Ray intoned without looking up. The remains of an egg butty were still visible, clinging to the bristles of his moustache.

  ‘Ray – seriously – is that any way to turn up for work?’

  Ray stared blankly, then glanced down at himself uncomprehendingly.

  ‘I’m a bloke,’ he said. ‘How the hell else do blokes turn up for work?’

  ‘Some of them wash, Ray, and change their clothes, and at the very least do their bloody tie up. You look borderline homeless.’

  ‘I had a wash Saturday,’ Ray rebuked him, lifting his stubbly chin in a display of dignity. ‘And this shirt’s clean on from last week.’ He sniffed his armpit, then looked past Sam and called out: ‘Hey, Chris! I don’t whiff, do I?’

  DS Chris Skelton emerged from behind a filing cabinet, dressed in a diamond-pattern tank top and beige slacks. But instead of answering Ray, he came swaggering slowly across the room, his face impassive, his hands held strangely at his sides. Fixing Sam with a dead-eyed stare, he gruffly intoned the single syllable: ‘Draw.’

  Sam stared blankly back at him: ‘… What?!’

  In the same gravelly voice, Chris grunted: ‘I said draw.’

  ‘He went to see that flick the other night,’ Ray put in, picking at crusty bits on his shirt. ‘The cowboy one with Yul Brynner where his face falls off at the end.’

  ‘Westworld?’ Sam asked.

  Bu
t the moment he spoke, Chris suddenly drew an imaginary revolver and pow-pow-powed it straight at Sam. Despite Sam’s total lack of reaction, a grin spread across Chris’s face. He blew the gun smoke from his finger tip and said: ‘Oh, Boss, you got more holes in you now than a ruddy sieve. I am Yul Brynner!’

  ‘I see the movie’s fired your imagination, Chris,’ Sam replied. ‘And yes, I admit it’s a bit of a sci-fi classic. But can we leave the gunslinger routine for the pub?’

  ‘The saloon,’ Chris corrected him. And then, turning to Ray, he added: ‘And in answer to your question – no, you don’t whiff. Not at all. If you do, the fags and farts cover it.’

  Sam held up his hands in a gesture of surrender: ‘Hey, fellas, I’m not up to intellectual debate of this calibre so early on a Monday morning. Ray – forget I said anything.’

  ‘I already ’ave, Boss,’ muttered Ray.

  ‘Anybody got any news on the siege at the church?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Last I heard, it were still dragging on,’ said Chris, heading over to his desk. ‘There’s coppers all round the place, but nowt’s happening.’

  ‘If there are any developments at all – anything – I want to be informed at once. Understood, cowboy?’

  ‘Yee hah, Boss,’ winked Chris, giving a jaunty Yankee Doodle salute.

  ‘Understood, Ray?’ Sam added.

  ‘Nope,’ Ray muttered. ‘I don’t even understand how to get dressed of a morning.’

  ‘Oh, stop sulking,’ Sam said, striding past him. And mischievously he added: ‘Sometimes, Ray, you’re worse than a bird.’

  ‘Shoot him for that, Ray!’ Chris urged, and he fell back into his gunslinger stance.

  Getting clear of all this idiocy, Sam headed over to Annie who was sitting off by herself, hunting through masses of old police files and making scribbled notes. She barely acknowledged him as he approached.

  ‘I promised the Guv I would have words with you,’ Sam said gently, half smiling. ‘You overstepped the mark yesterday: you honked his horn. And he was not well pleased. In fact, he was livid, and the only way I could stop him coming after you like a rabid Rottweiler was to promise him I would officially reprimand you for your behaviour. So. There you go. Consider yourself officially reprimanded.’