Johnson had been killed. There were low-lifes like Les Poole, of course, but Poole was a coward at heart, and whatever he was, he wasn’t a murderer. Still, it might be worth mentioning Johnson’s name to him, just to see the reaction.
Had the killer not known about Johnson’s record, that he would be easy to identify? Certainly whoever it was had gone to great lengths to hide the body, but he hadn’t tried to destroy the fingerprints, as some killers did. Perhaps he was squeamish—unlikely, given the way he’d killed Johnson—or he was careless. Careless or cocky. Whatever the reason, Banks at least had something to go on: Flat 6, 59 Calvin Street. That was the place to start.
II
If Gristhorpe had expected inverted crosses, black candles,
pentagrams and ceremonial robes, he couldn’t have
been more mistaken. Melville Westman’s Helmthorpe
cottage was as ordinary as could be: teal wallpaper with
white curlicue patterns, beige three-piece suite, television,
music centre. Sunlight poured through the windows
past the white lace curtains and gave the place a bright,
airy feel. The only clues to Westman’s interests were to
be found in the bookcase: Eliphas Levi’s Le Dogme et le
Rituel de la Haute Magie, Mathers’s translation of The Key of Solomon, Crowley’s Magick in Theory and Practice, Malleus Malefic arum and a few other books on astrology, Cabbala, the tarot, witchcraft and ritual magic. In addition, a sampler over the fireplace bore the motto, “Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law,” in the same kind of embroidery one would expect to find such ancient saws as, “A house is built of bricks; a home is built on love.”
Similarly, if Gristhorpe had expected a bedraggled, wild-eyed Charles Manson look-alike, he would have been disappointed. Westman was a dapper, middle-aged man with sparse mousy hair, dressed in a grey V-neck pullover over a white shirt, wearing equally grey pants with sharp creases. He was a short, portly man, but he had presence. It was partly in the slightly flared nostrils that gave his face a constant expression of arrogant sneering, and partly in the controlled intensity of his cold eyes.
“It took you long enough,” he said to Gristhorpe, gesturing towards an armchair.
Gristhorpe sat down. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, come on, Superintendent! Let’s not play games. The girl, the missing girl. I read about it in the paper.”
“What’s that got to do with you?”
Westman sat opposite Gristhorpe and leaned forward in his chair, linking his hands on his lap. “Nothing, of course. But you have to ask, don’t you?”
“And?”
Westman smiled and shook his head slowly. “And nothing.”
“Mr Westman,” Gristhorpe said. “In cases like this we have to consider every possibility. If you know anything about the child’s disappearance, .’d be best if you told me.”
“I told you. I know nothing. Why should I?”
“We both know about your involvement in witchcraft and Satanism. Don’t be nadve.”
“Involvement? Witchcraft? Satanism? Superintendent, just because I practise a different religion from you, don’t assume I’m some kind of monster. I’m not a Satanist, and I’m not a witch, either. Most people you would call witches are silly dabblers who appropriate the old ways and practices as an excuse for sexual excess. Ex-hippies and New Agers.”
“Whatever you call yourself,” Gristhorpe said, “there’s a history of people like you being involved in sacrifice.”
“Sacrificial virgins? Really! Again, you’re confusing me with the psychopathic Satanists who use the ancient ways as an excuse. People who read too much Aleister Crowley?he did exaggerate, you know?and found he appealed to their sick fantasies. You find a few bloody pentagrams daubed on a wall and a bit of gibberish in Latin and you think you’re dealing with the real thing. You’re not.”
Gristhorpe pointed towards the bookcase. “I notice you have a few Aleister Crowley books yourself. Does that make you a psychopathic Satanist?”
Westinan’s lips curled at the edges like an old sandwich. “Crowley has things to teach to those who understand. Do you know the purpose of magic, Superintendent?”
“Power,” said Gristhorpe.
Westman sniffed. “Typical. It comes from the same root as ‘magi,’ wise man. The purpose of the ‘Great Work’ is to become God, and you dismiss it as mere human hunger for power.”
Gristhorpe sighed and tried to hold onto his temper. The man’s sanctimonious tone was grating on his nerves. “Mr Westman, I don’t really give a damn what illusions
you cling to. That’s not the purpose?”
“Illusions! Superintendent, believe me, the work of the magician is far from an illusion. It’s a matter of will, courage, intense study of?”
“I don’t want a lecture, Mr Westman. I know enough about the subject already. I know, for example, that sacrifice is important because you regard living creatures as storehouses of energy. When you kill them, when you spill their blood, you release this energy and concentrate it. I also know it’s as much a matter of blood-lust, of murderous frenzy, as it is of any practical purpose. The incense, incantations, and finally the gushing of blood. It’s orgasmic, a sexual kick.”
Westman waved his hand. “I can see you know nothing, Superintendent. Again, you’re talking about the deviants, the charlatans.”
