Free The Devil's Moon by Peter Guttridge

was a wedding you say?’
    â€˜It didn’t last.’
    Hewitt barked a laugh then became more solemn. ‘Unfortunately, this one did have someone inside. Burned to a cinder.’ Hewitt sighed. ‘God, what a city.’
    â€˜I’m guessing that God had nothing to do with it – rather the reverse.’
    â€˜These were pagan worshippers in the films?’
    â€˜They were. Not to be confused with black magicians. Modern pagans are all supposedly benign – hugging trees and worshipping the moon and all that. Not generally known for human sacrifices. Or, indeed, animal ones, as I think they are all veggies.’
    â€˜Hmm. All right, Sarah, I’ll put you on the investigation as well as that of troubled teenagers.’
    â€˜As well as?’
    â€˜You drew the connection, not me.’
    â€˜Yes, but I was thinking of the Wicker Man investigation as a potential way into a future troubled teenager investigation . . .’
    â€˜In tandem, Sarah. Unless you don’t want the Wicker Man investigation? Because this is the only way I can justify giving it to you. There’s copper theft from railways to fall back on, too. That’s a more pressing problem.’
    Gilchrist ground her teeth.
    â€˜I’ll be delighted to do the investigation in parallel with my work with the task force,’ she ground out.
    Hewitt was brisk. ‘Get on with it, then.’

EIGHT
    â€˜T here’s a heart nailed to your front door,’ Bob Watts said. ‘I’m hoping it’s animal not human.’
    â€˜Yeah, we found it,’ Fi said, her voice sounding even throatier down the phone line. ‘It’s a sheep’s heart.’
    â€˜Someone has killed a sheep and torn its heart out?’
    Fi rasped a laugh. ‘You’re not a cook, are you, Bob? This is Barnes – it’s from the local butcher.’
    â€˜They sell sheep’s hearts?’
    â€˜They do. Getting the ventricles out is a bit of a bugger but they’re very nice stuffed. Tender. I think Jamie has a recipe.’
    â€˜What’s the significance of it?’
    â€˜It’s a warning.’
    â€˜Warning about what?’
    â€˜Somebody is threatening us with doom – or worse.’
    â€˜Who?’
    â€˜Some devil-worshipping nutter, no doubt.’
    â€˜You’re not worried?’
    â€˜Happens every couple of months. Have you decided about the Crowley book yet?’
    â€˜I wanted to talk to you about that. I’ve had another offer.’
    â€˜Come round for lunch. Caspar’s will be mostly liquid but I’ll rustle something up for you, me and our lodger.’
    Watts put down the phone and picked up the card of the man who’d made the offer on
Moonchild
in the occult bookshop. Vincent Slattery, an antiquarian bookseller from Lewes.
    He phoned but the call went straight to voicemail.
    With nothing else to do and his curiosity piqued by the odd inscription in Pearson’s book, he’d been in touch with Colin Pearson’s publisher to try to arrange a meeting with the author. Pearson’s publisher, after a bit of to-ing and fro-ing, had given him a number with a Brighton code. Watts dialled it now.
    Someone picked up the phone and immediately replaced it. When he tried again the phone was engaged. He gave up after ten attempts over the next hour.
    The rain had relented although the sky remained angry. Gilchrist didn’t feel sick any more but she had sudden moments of dizziness and twice she thought someone had called her name. When she turned to respond, however, there was nobody there.
    She went down to the beach to look at the remains of the Wicker Man. The entire structure had collapsed into a black, smoking mound only partly covered in grey foam. The policeman keeping guard by the tape was young, short and pink-faced. She showed him her warrant card, conscious she was towering over him.
    â€˜I’ve been put in charge of this