The Devil's Code

1

Grief. It consumes you. As Joshua stirred from another troubled sleep there was a split second when his brain tricked him into thinking that everything was alright. That his mother was still alive. The moment passed all too quickly and the gut-wrenching pain returned. His mouth was dry and he fought back the rising bile. His brain did what it always did. Flashed images of his mother, in and out of his psyche. He buried his face in the pillow, stifling more tears. People said that time healed but two weeks since her sudden and unexpected death had done nothing to ease the agonising pain he was feeling every hour of every day.

Today was as bad as it got. Today she was being cremated. Given back to her God. Joshua shook his head at the thought. He loved her more than anything in the world, but he hated how she thrust God and her faith down his throat at every opportunity. Forced to pray. Forced to read extract after extract of the bible. Where was her God now? Why had he taken her from him? He never understood her faith.

He knew he had to move but the car accident that had caused his mother’s death had also left him with injuries that made getting up a herculean task. He had little feeling in his left leg and limited mobility in his right. Scans had been inconclusive; doctors giving him all sorts of false platitudes about temporary paralysis and how things would improve if he kept up the physiotherapy. For now, the wheelchair that sat by his bed, and the pair of crutches leaning against it, were his only way of getting about. The ground floor flat they lived in was a small chink of good in the shit storm that was his current life.

He managed to shower and shave. Mechanical, boring actions that used up time. Time that he didn’t want or need if it meant he was sat thinking about his mother. As he opened the fridge to have some breakfast, he cursed. No milk.

He grabbed his coat and wallet and wheeled himself outside. The shop was across the park but as he entered, he knew there was going to be trouble. The local gang of youths was milling about near the children’s playground, shouting and swearing and drinking strong lager even at this early point in the morning. Joshua urged his wheelchair on, hoping to sneak past without them noticing. Fat chance.

The ringleader, a six-foot thug with a skinhead haircut and numerous tattoos adorning his body, jumped up and headed straight for Joshua, lobbing his can of lager in his general direction. It hit the right wheel, exploding in a mess of metal and fizzy liquid. The gang roared with laughter as they bore down on Joshua. The ringleader spoke.

“Well, if it ain’t the retard on wheels.”

Joshua tried not to make eye contact, urging the wheelchair on. “Just leave me alone.”

The thug jumped in front of the wheelchair, straddling Joshua’s legs and gripping the arms of the chair.

“Now that ain’t very nice is it Mr Cripple. You wanna have more respect than that.”

“Leave me alone”

The thug looked at his gang. “Should we leave him alone?” They all laughed as the thug started to spin the chair around as the rest of the gang punched, kicked and showered Joshua with lager. By the time the attack was finished, Joshua lay on his side, half in his wheelchair and half on the ground. He watched as the gang ran away. Laughing.

It only took a few minutes for ‘concerned citizens’ to come to his aid but as he let them fuss over him, his mind inevitably turned to his mother. She wouldn’t have let that happen. Joshua was 35, but all his life he had been a target. His lank, greasy hair, odd face and rotund shape was nirvana for bullies. Everywhere he went, people pointed and sniggered, calling him ‘weird’ or ‘mental’. His mother was the only thing that kept him safe and sane. His life was nothing without her. Worthless.

Several hours later, his neighbour, Mrs Robertson had sorted him out. Patched him up, helped him buy his groceries and made sure he had all he needed for the funeral. He dismissed her as quickly as he could. A classic busy body who meant well but just wanted the latest gossip. Joshua was sure he would be the subject of her inane chattering at bingo or whatever sad old person activity she was doing that night.

The hearse arrived and the staff from the funeral directors helped him in the car. He was the only one attending. They had no friends and no family. This is how Joshua wanted it. Just he and his mother, in one final act.

The celebrant made the best of the service, banging on about God and how he was taking one of his precious souls back to him in heaven. Prayer after prayer made the bile rise once again, but Joshua knew his mother would have approved.

The final act was unconventional. He had begged the funeral directors to let him see his mother’s coffin going into the fire. They had eventually relented with the agreement of the crematorium staff. He was the only one attending the funeral and they all could see that it was Joshua’s way of achieving closure.

As Joshua was led into the room on crutches, he watched behind glass as his mother’s coffin entered the large kiln. As the doors opened, the roaring flames made him squint. As he watched the flames engulf her coffin, he clawed at the window, his body convulsing as uncontrollable sobs made it hard for him to breathe. He began to fall as he relinquished the support he’d been getting from the crutches.

The staff saved him from falling over and helped him to a chair, giving him a glass of water. They left him alone in his grief. He wrapped his arms around his waist. He was still shaking with the shock of seeing his mother’s last moments. We’ll be together soon, we’ll be together soon, he muttered to himself as he slowly rocked back and forth. He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the vision of her last moments, but it wasn’t working.

Nothing would stop the pain. So deep, so profound that it turned into rage. A rage that started in his gut, quickly rose to his chest, up into his neck and finally to the top of his head. An all-consuming rage that made him grip his head and screw up his face. No, no, no, he said as the rage grew so strong that he thought his head would explode. He let out a scream, so loud and so sudden that the crematorium staff rushed back in to see what the noise was about. They fussed around but he told them to leave him be. The tears started, the rage getting worse, his gut tight, his chest tight. He collapsed on the floor.

The next thing he knew he woke in a hospital bed. As he looked around at the bland, lifeless room, he suddenly knew what he had to do. He had to be with her but he was not going to go quietly. Exiting this world, like she had done, with no one around and no one caring one jot about his life, was not going to happen. For once in his miserable life people were going to take notice.

He grabbed his bag and found the one thing that still made sense to him. He turned it over and over in his hand, allowing himself a brief pained smile.

A plan was forming.

2

ONE WEEK LATER

Matthew McCallum sat in St Cecilia’s Hall waiting for the classical concert to start. The Hall was Scotland’s oldest purpose-built concert hall, dating back to 1762. The Georgian architecture was beautiful and the acoustics, the best he had ever experienced.

Matthew took every opportunity he could to support the burgeoning talent that flowed through the musical undergraduate programmes at Edinburgh university. The Hall had been a second home, for more years than he cared to remember. He was an accomplished tenor himself but work often got in the way of pursuing his passion for all things classical music.

He shuffled in his seat, trying to get comfortable as the formal black-tie attire seemed somehow tighter around his belly than the last time he’d put it on. He was the wrong side of fifty and, whilst his work consumed lots of nervous energy, he never had enough time to properly exercise and indulge in his other passion of hill walking. He was a few months away from potential retirement and he resolved to sort out whatever was causing his podge to grow when he had more time on his hands. He smoothed his hand over his hair. Another thing that always seemed to be out of control. It still had body but the greyness belied his years and he cursed every time he looked at the unruly mop in the mirror. Another thing he would do when he had more time on his hands. Get a proper haircut.

The orchestra and vocalists did their final preparations as the conductor addressed the crowd and called for silence. Beethoven’s fifth started to emanate from the accomplished orchestra. This was followed by an amazing solo from a young undergraduate singing Nessum Dorma. Pieces from Handel, Lizst and Wagner followed. An amazing evening. Matthew stood with everyone else to give the students a standing ovation. A real triumph.

As he exited the building, he turned his phone back on. It immediately started to beep with what seemed to him to be a disapproving tone. Numerous messages flashing up. His heart sank. He was supposed to be on a night off, but crime didn’t respect free time. He was a Detective Chief Inspector for Police Scotland, responsible for major crime in Midlothian, East Lothian, the Scottish Borders and the City of Edinburgh. The messages were from his regular partner, Detective Sergeant Louise Cookson. An attempted murder had been called in from a house on the outskirts of Edinburgh. He called her back, getting exact details of the location. He ran to his car and took off his dinner jacket and dicky bow, replacing it with an arran jumper. He didn’t need any more clever remarks about his unusual interests for a police officer. The McMorse jibe was wearing particularly thin.

The initial investigations were concluded quickly, statements taken and a warrant issued for the main suspect. It was right that more often than not, a murder is committed by someone you know. In this case, the victim had survived and was able to identify the perpetrator. Matthew thanked his lucky stars that his night off had not been disrupted by a difficult case.

*

He approached the door, his presence clouded by the growing darkness.

Go on, knock on the door and remember he is a bad man. He hurts children. Remember that.

He knocked. A tall muscular man answered, his impressive frame blotting out large parts of the light that was now streaming onto the porch. “Ahh, Mr Reynolds. You’re right on time. Come in.”

Get the cloth ready. Come on. Do it now, while he’s off guard.

He moved fast, attacking from behind. He was a big lad himself, which gave him a small advantage as the other man’s brain slowly reacted to what was happening and tried to struggle free from his grip. He held firm, resisting the man’s efforts to free himself. Within seconds the man was unconscious, collapsed on the floor.

Is it done? Is it done?

He grunted back a positive response.

Good, good. Now stand on a chair and screw the hook I gave you into the ceiling.

He complied.

Now get the rope out of your backpack and tie it on the hook.

He tied it securely and let it hang loose.

Get the chair and place it underneath the rope. Now lift the man and put the noose around his neck. It should be the perfect length.

He did as he was told. The man was heavy but his impressive strength allowed him to haul the man up into a standing position on another chair, right next to the one he had used to secure the hook. The rope length was perfect. The noose tensed around his neck, whilst the tip of his feet just about made contact with the chair seat.

Now get out the picture I drew and scrape the image on the floor with the knife. Place the skull where I said.

He worked slowly and diligently.

Now get the phone out and press the red button on the screen

They waited.

It was only about twenty minutes, but it seemed like an eternity. The man’s eyes began to open. As the man realised what was happening to him, he began to scream.

3

After the brief interruption to his night off, Matthew sat listening to some Brahms as he digested an adequate fish pie that he had pinged in the microwave. He tried to empty his mind using the rise and fall of the music as a stress reliever. As the first track came to an end his attempts at a calm and relaxing few minutes were rudely interrupted by his phone tinkling away.

“McCallum.”

“Sir, I’m sorry to bother you again. It’s DS Cookson. We’ve had another murder called in from a house in Musselburgh. It looks a bad one. I’m on scene but I think you need to come.”

Matthew sighed. “Jesus Christ. What is going on tonight?”

“I know. I’m sorry sir.”

“Don’t worry. Crime never respects a night off. I’m on my way.”

It was past 10 p.m. meaning traffic was light and he arrived at the house within twenty minutes. The house was along a narrow lane bordering the western edge of the golf course. Remote enough for the perpetrator to get in and out without too much risk. The house was surrounded by numerous police vehicles, the blues flashing away.

Matthew parked up and walked toward the crime tape. He was met by DS Cookson. She was a model copper. In her early thirties, she had been a police officer since leaving university, becoming a response Sergeant within five years and moving to CID a couple of years after that. She had been with Matthew for a year. At 5-foot 6 with blond hair that was always scraped back into a ponytail and a pretty round face, she was often taken for granted by colleagues and criminals alike. Whilst Matthew had always felt quite protective toward her, he soon realised she was not one to be messed with and quickly stopped exhibiting any patronising gender stereotypes toward her.

“Evening Sir. I’m sorry to disturb you but we have a rather grim one here. I thought you would want to see it first-hand.”

Matthew gave a resigned sigh. “I’m sure your right. You’d better show me what we’ve got.”

They walked in the front door and went left into a large sitting room. Matthew stopped the second he walked into the room. A macabre scene greeted him. A man was hanging, the rope around his neck secured to a large hook in the ceiling. A pushed over chair lay sprawled to the right of the hanging man. Underneath the victim, a star shaped symbol contained in a circle was scratched into the wooden floor next to an animal skull.

Matthew looked at Louise. “What the hell is this?”

“We’re not sure sir. We wanted you to see the scene before we let the forensic team in.”

Matthew took a careful step into the room, trying not to compromise any possible forensics. He eyed the scene curiously.

“Why did you decide this is a murder scene? This could easily be a macabre suicide ritual.”

“We have a witness sir who saw a man running away from the house about three hours ago. A neighbour. She didn’t think anything off it until the man’s wife came out of her house screaming for help. Seems she was working a late shift in the bar at the golf club and found him about 9.45 pm.”

“Wife?”

“Yes, she’s in one of the ambulances outside being treated for shock.”

Matthew stepped back out of the room. “Right. Let the forensic team in and do as much door to door as you can this evening, without upsetting the neighbours at this late hour. Get someone to research what that symbol is and work out the significance of the animal skull. Make sure the wife is looked after and get her statement as soon as you can. I’d better phone the Chief Constable and let Gold command know what is going on. I’ll get the incident room set up back at the station and I’ll need debriefing from you and the forensic team in the morning.”

“Yes sir. I’m right on it.”

Matthew stepped out of the house and walked toward the ambulance. He introduced himself to the widow and made all the right noises. She was largely incoherent and he didn’t push it. He went back under the tape and walked a little further along the lane. He opened up his phone. There was little or no signal. He cursed and grabbed a cigar from his pocket. The spring evening was cool but the winds were light and he got it lit with limited fuss, quickly revelling in the sharpness of the tobacco taste.

He eventually made his way back to his car and started to drive back to the centre of Edinburgh, making the phone calls he couldn’t make earlier.

The weariness began to consume him. He had a feeling this was going to be a tricky case.