There was only one exit; back through the doorway she had entered.
As he watched his quarry from the interior of an unmarked police vehicle, Arthur Gregson replayed the last conversation held with his High Priest. In the glove compartment rested a small, double-edged knife with an ornate ivory handle, reserved for occasions such as these.
“Do it now,” the man had urged. “He will be alone. The area is secluded.”
Gregson reached towards the glove compartment with reluctant hands. He unsheathed the blade, admiring its craftsmanship whilst at the same time thinking of how many lives it had taken.
“It’s not necessary,” he had argued, once again.
The High Priest had looked upon his servant with mild, unyielding eyes.
“Arthur, I’ve noticed a certain insubordination from you, recently, which I consider a mark of disloyalty.”
Gregson held the blade in his fleshy hands, testing the weight.
“I’ve supported you from the start –”
“You ought to be supporting the Master. I am merely his representative on Earth.”
Gregson looked away, out of the window. What did he care for some ridiculous notion of satanic witchcraft? The man had gone mad, if he genuinely believed there was any substance to it. Perhaps Jane Freeman was right, he thought. It might be time for the Circle’s first High Priestess.
“You’re wondering whether Freeman might make a good substitute,” he had continued blandly, reading Gregson’s thoughts with ease.
“No, I –”
“You’re thinking of how I might be ousted, aren’t you? Perhaps your ego has grown sufficiently to consider yourself as a potential leader, hmm?”
“Of course not.”
“Perhaps you’re even wondering if you have the balls to use that blade on me.”
Gregson looked again at the knife resting loosely in his cupped hands and gripped the handle tighter as he imagined plunging it into the belly of his tormentor, watching him double over and wither to nothing.
Then, he thought wistfully, he would be free of him.
“You will never leave the Circle, Arthur. You have pledged your life to its work, to the work of the Master. If you abandon us, you abandon him. Who would accept your soul then, Arthur? God?” The High Priest had laughed, at the thought of it.
“You think he’s a saviour, Arthur? Remember the cause, remember why we fight.”
Gregson looked ahead, peering through the gloom to pick out the back of Jack Lowerson’s head inside the black Fiat. Gregson had chosen his position with care and had parked in his present spot, engine and headlights off, long before Lowerson had rounded the corner. He had observed MacKenzie making her way to Donovan’s front door and wondered how that would end.
The clock read eight-thirty and there was still no sign of Ryan or Phillips. He knew they would be coming; there was no question of this being an unplanned visit. There had been no discussion on the police radio, no planning in the Incident Room, but Gregson had known. Of course, he had known that Ryan would eventually put the jigsaw pieces together be led here, so Gregson made sure he arrived first, waiting and watching. Still, time was marching on and if he was going to make a move, he needed to make it now.
Above him, the sky wept. Raindrops fell like warm tears, pattering against the bonnet of the car.
CHAPTER 24
Jack Lowerson watched the entranceway to the stone villa on the outskirts of the Town Moor, his thin fingers flexing on the steering wheel while he listened to MacKenzie’s voice flowing through the headphones at his ears. He found himself enthralled by both the smooth tone and the direction of the conversation.
“You’ve been under a lot of stress,” Paddy was saying.
“I have,” Denise agreed. “I really have. You’ll laugh at the next part …”
“What’s that?”
“I was starting to think that the mastermind behind it all really was one of us.”
There was a short pause and a tap, the sound of Paddy replacing his glass of port on the coffee table.
“That’s getting a little far-fetched, don’t you think? Let’s try to think clearly, Denise. Look at the facts.”
“I know that everything points to Colin and now he’s dead. Doesn’t that seem awfully convenient? Now, he can’t defend himself.”
Paddy sighed and eased out of his chair.
“Perhaps, you’re feeling a sense of loss, now that a man has died. You found him unnerving, didn’t you? Now that he’s gone, perhaps you’re feeling a sense of relief, which in turn makes you feel guilty.”
Denise huffed out a sigh.
“The style doesn’t fit Edwards or Colin Hart.”