Soulfarm

By David Toft

A vicious assault in a rural Irish pub is the first in a series of increasingly bizarre events that catapult Detective Chief Inspector Seamus Brogan into a world dominated by an all-powerful and despotic church; a church which harvests the despair, pain, and soulpower of heretics for its own power and glorification.

Outside a mediaeval Dublin, a massive crusader army prepares to launch an attack on Brogan’s Ireland. Swords and crossbows will be no match for the weaponry of a modern army, but the power of the human soul when harvested and targeted as a weapon of war is truly mind-blowing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9781613090053

Book preview

Soulfarm

Doyle rapped on the door of the cottage from which there had been no answer on the previous day. A silver BMW occupied the parking slot to the front of it.

Brogan watched through the squad car’s windscreen, tapping his chin with his index finger. Five of the six cottages had been occupied at the time of the murders. Their only living rooms looked out onto the road. It had been a quiet country lane on a Sunday morning. When someone passed your window, you noticed. When someone wearing armour and carrying a sword passed your window, you definitely noticed.

So they’d come from the other direction, from the direction of the bridge that at least one of the walkers must have crossed. Unless they arrived by car. His brow creased. Spanish Conquistadors in a car just didn’t work. He shook his head; Spanish Conquistadors in Wicklow didn’t work, but he’d seen them.

Table of Contents

SOULFARM title page

Dedication

Chapters

Meet David Toft

Works from the pen of David Toft

SOULFARM

David Toft

A Wings ePress, Inc.

Paranormal Novel

Edited by: Joan Afman

Copy Edited by: Karen Babcock

Senior Editor: Karen Babcock

Executive Editor: Marilyn Kapp

Cover Artist: Richard Stroud

All rights reserved

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Wings ePress Books

Copyright © 2010 by David Toft

ISBN 978-1-61309-005-3

Published by Wings ePress, Inc. at Smashwords

Published In the United States Of America

Wings ePress Inc.

3000 N. Rock Road

Newton, KS 67114

Dedication

Many thanks to—Mary, as always, for her continued support and patience Toni Kerr, critique partner and friend, for her invaluable help and suggestions. The editorial staff at Wings for licking Soulfarm into shape and keeping me focused.

One

Garda Eamon Doyle nudged the door of O’Malley’s bar with his forearm.

It creaked and swung inward a few inches.

A sweet, metallic smell found his nostrils. He swallowed hard and looked along the lane to his left for the promised backup.

The empty ribbon of tarmac curled away and disappeared between distant trees. A pair of magpies hopped, wall to road and back again.

He turned to his right.

Empty parking bays fronted a terrace of six cottages.

Looking back to the door, he pushed it fully open with his foot and stepped from the bright, morning sunlight into the pub’s dim interior.

He screwed up his eyes against the gloom and sidestepped from the doorway, allowing daylight to flood the room.

The body lay, spread-eagled in a pool of blood in the centre of the small, square lounge. Blood seeped along the cracks between the floor’s flagstones, forming a bright red grid. Doyle studied the victim, a young man, late teens, he guessed, dressed in hiking gear and with black, spiky hair flecked with artificial blond.

He stepped to the least bloodied side of the body and crouched beside it. One side of the face was caved in, the jawbone apparently shattered. Only a sliver of flesh and fabric still connected the left arm to the torso.

Phew. He steadied himself with one hand and wiped his brow with the other. A ferocious downward blow from something very sharp appeared to have caused the most obvious of the wounds. An angry, red stab wound still oozed blood onto the floor from just beneath the ribcage.

He reached forward and pressed his finger to the youth’s neck.

Jesus. There was still a pulse—faint, but there. His thoughts became jumbled—what to do? What had he been trained to do? He took a deep breath. Staunch the blood flow. He couldn’t think straight. Staunch the blood flow.

A screaming in his head became the screech of sirens. Their wailing urgency confused his thoughts even more.

Doors slammed.

Footfalls sounded on the road outside.

The door behind him crashed open.

A hand rested on his shoulder. Its fingers tightened, guiding him up and away from the victim. .

He leaned against the serving counter and watched the paramedics get to work with all the professionalism that he had lacked.

They’ll ruin the forensics. He looked away; it wasn’t their job to worry about the forensics. A second door at the end of the bar stood ajar. The sign above it read Toilets. Sunlight shafted in through another door at the end of a narrow corridor. Two doors in the passage’s wall must be the ladies’ and gents’. A leg stuck out from one of them. There’s another, he shouted. Through the back.

~ * ~

Wrong again. Detective Chief Inspector Seamus Brogan stabbed his thumb down onto the remote control, and the weathergirl disappeared from the TV screen in the corner of the room.

He turned to the window. Dust motes hovered in the bright sunlight that knifed between the slats of the vertical wooden blinds into the living room of his South Dublin home. Dull and overcast. What do they know? He smiled and shook his head.

A car horn sounded.

Coming...coming. He turned and scanned the room as he reached the door that led into the hallway. He always did.

The horn sounded a second time.

Jesus Christ, woman, I’m coming. He tapped the side-pocket of his jacket. Keys. Then the breast pocket, Phone. Striding across the small hallway, he pulled the front door open, cutting short the third blast of the horn.

Two pairs of eyes stared out at him through the rear window of his car, Patrick and Stephen, his twin nine-year-olds. It was Brogan’s first weekend off in months. They were going to the beach.

His wife Gemma occupied the front passenger seat. She too watched him, twisting in her seat, her sharp features visible between the Mondeo’s headrests. She smiled...just.

Sit down properly, boys. Seatbelts on. Gemma followed her own instructions as Brogan slid his bulky frame into the driver’s seat.

His gaze flicked to the rearview mirror. Beach or mountains?

Beach, the boys shouted in unison.

Brogan smiled. He’d already stashed the beach gear in the boot of the Ford. He turned the key in the ignition and leaned across to turn on the radio. Before his finger reached the button, the sound of Ravel’s Bolero filled the car. He looked at Gemma, his hand already reaching for his mobile.

She said nothing. She didn’t have to. He could read the ‘don’t you dare,’ in her eyes.

He concentrated on his answering expression, I’ve got to ...sorry.

He pulled the phone from his pocket. Brogan... Which one? ...Loughlinstown... Twenty minutes, and tell Doyle to meet me there. He turned off the phone. I’ll take the Micra, no point in unpacking all the gear. He didn’t turn to look at his wife. I’ll see you at the beach, or in O’Grady’s for lunch.

He considered kissing her goodbye only for a second, knowing that, should he lean across the space between them, his lips would only contact the back of her head as she turned away from him.

Gemma’s Nissan was parked on the road. A car door slammed behind him as he walked along the short gravel driveway toward it. The volume of that sound was worth a thousand words.

He cringed. Shit.

~ * ~

Brogan flashed his warrant card at the car park attendant and strode toward the glass doors of the foyer. The sun shone from an unbroken blue sky.

Thank God for small mercies.

At least Gemma would have an easier time with the boys.

The nurse behind the reception desk looked up and smiled as he crossed the polished tile floor toward her. His footfalls echoed around the cavernous space. He hadn’t quite reached her when Doyle emerged from a corridor to his right.

Guv.

Brogan changed direction to meet him. Where are they?

Dead, Guv, both of them.

Fuck. He flashed a look of apology toward the reception desk, but the nurse just stared at her computer screen. I don’t suppose there’s any chance it was an accident?

Not a hope, pretty much hacked to pieces.

Both of them?

’Fraid so. It’s a messy one, this. The pathologist’s on her way.

Any ID?

Not on the older guy. But he’s likely the barman who called it in. The station’s trying to track down the owner.

And the young lad?

Kevin Brady, address out in Ranelagh. They’re on that too.

Not much we can do here, so. Let’s head for the scene. You can fill me in as we go. He turned and headed for the door. You’re driving."

Doyle’s squad car stood like a fluorescent island in the middle of the almost empty car park. As they walked toward it, Brogan pulled out his phone and called Gemma.

I can’t come to the phone at the moment. Leave a message after the tone. Even her recorded request sounded more like an instruction.

Shit. He didn’t leave a message. Fifteen years they’d been married, and if she had the message minder on, it was because there was no room for negotiation. He was expected at the beach and that was it. Another week of the silent treatment. He stuffed the phone back into his pocket.

Sorry, Guv.

Not your fault. Come on.

~ * ~

A young female garda blocked the door of O’Malley’s. It stood open but criss-crossed with crime scene tape.

The white-suits here yet? Brogan asked, as they approached.

Not yet, sir. It’s Sunday. She stood aside, and Brogan ducked under the tape.

The floor of the small bar was awash with blood. Footprints and swirling scrape marks decorated the congealing pool. Paramedics and stretchers Brogan assumed; he doubted that the forensics team would find anything useful for him in the mess. The spatter patterns on the walls and on the front of the serving counter might prove more fruitful though.

Don’t touch anything, he said, as Doyle stepped to his side. I could do without another arse-chewing. He looked up. Above the rear door of the room, a CCTV camera angled into it. He pointed up to it. Find the office, and if that thing’s working get the tape. I’ll be in the car.

Brogan had only just settled into the passenger seat when an empty-handed Doyle ducked out of the front door of the pub. Well.

Couldn’t get to it, Guv.

Jesus, do I have to do everything myself! He reached for the door handle.

Well, I could have...but not without paddling through blood, and I didn’t think that was a good idea.

Brogan laid his head back in his seat. Come on then, let’s have a look. We’ll try from the back.

But...

And don’t argue.

Brogan scratched his chin. The entrance to the office was up a narrow flight of stairs opposite the gents’ toilet. Blood covered the floor for the full width of the stairway and of the corridor. Doyle had been right. There was no way. And they both survived as far as the hospital. He shook his head.

Guv.

Brogan turned.

There’s a ladder out the back and the window’s open.

Good God, it thinks. Well done, Doyle.

Brogan watched Doyle’s feet disappear through the bottom of the sash window. A crash, then the sound of breaking glass followed.

Careful, Doyle.

I’m trying, Guv. Ow...Shit.

Brogan raised his eyes to the heavens.

Got it. Doyle appeared at the window, waving a videotape.

Good, now get back down here, and for Christ’s sake be careful.

Doyle’s foot appeared through the bottom of the window and waved in the air, trying to find one of the rungs. Brogan closed his eyes but tightened his grip on the ladder.

Resting his elbows on the roof of the squad car, Brogan looked along the lane. He drummed his fingers on the steel, impatient to get back to his office and see what, if anything, the video could tell him.

The rear doors of the crime scene van hung open. The forensics team hopped around behind it, pulling on their white coveralls. He frowned. It looked more comic than scientific.

Doyle and the female uniform were at the door of the cottage next door to the pub, talking to the occupant. They had started at the farthest away of the six dwellings and were working their way back to the car. This was the last. They wouldn’t be long now.

He watched Doyle slip his notepad back into the breast-pocket of his jacket, replace his cap squarely on his head and turn to face him. He didn’t need to see the shake of the young garda’s head to know that the doorstep interviews had produced nothing.

He looked up. The previously blue sky had turned slate-grey. He sighed. If it started to rain, he’d be in even deeper shit with Gemma.

~ * ~

In the back room of the garda station, Brogan rewound the videotape. The images flashed by too quickly for him to make out any detail. When the flickering screen showed nothing but a deserted bar, he pressed Stop, swung his feet onto the desk and hit Play. The quality was poor, nearer to black and white than to Technicolor. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes not leaving the picture of the empty bar.

He could have the tape enhanced, but that would take time.

A single knock sounded and the door swung open. Brogan pressed Pause and looked up from the screen.

The excitement in Doyle’s expression was almost childlike. It irritated Brogan for some reason. What?

Sorry, Guv, but you’ll want to hear this.

I’d better....go on.

The victim, Kevin Brady. He was with a walking group. Twelve of them set off from Shankill this morning.

So?

Their bus driver just called out mountain rescue. They’re two hours overdue.

All of them?

All of them. The commissioner wants you out there.

That’s a job for the local boys. He eased his feet from the desk and back onto the floor, his eyes dropping to the screen and his hand reaching for the VCR’s remote control.

It would be, except—one of the missing group is the son of the minister for justice.

Brogan’s finger hovered above Play. Didn’t he have protection?

He did. That’s missing as well.

And didn’t radio in.

No, not a word.

Brogan’s eyes flicked from the screen to Doyle, then back again. Shit, but we’ve time to watch this first.

But....

Doyle, how many times, don’t argue. His finger stabbed down, and he concentrated on the grainy image of the empty bar.

The telephone rang. He picked up the receiver, his eyes not leaving the screen. Brogan. He listened for a few seconds. Yes, sir. Right away, sir. He slammed the handset back into its cradle. You didn’t tell me that the fecker was downstairs.

I—

Never mind. Come on. He ejected the tape, dropped it into his jacket pocket and pushed himself up from the desk.

Doyle stepped aside. Oh, and your wife called, Guv. Said if you weren’t home by five not to bother at all.

Brogan looked at his watch. It was quarter to. Double shit. He flashed a look at Doyle and wasn’t quite sure whether he saw the last of a smirk disappear. Don’t just stand there. There’s work to do.

~ * ~

Stop just outside the pub, Brogan said, as they approached the first of the cottages. The house you got no answer from. Try it again.

The female officer outside O’Malley’s had been replaced.

Brogan smiled. At least someone was having Sunday evening at home.

Doyle slipped back into the driver’s seat. Still no luck. The woman next door says that the owner’s got a holiday cottage in The West and often disappears for the weekend.

Brogan shrugged. Would they have passed here, the walkers?

No, they’d have crossed the river at the bridge half a mile down. Doyle nodded toward the windscreen. Crossed the road and headed straight up and over the moors again.

Hmmm.

It’s about the halfway point though. If they’d planned a pub stop rather than a picnic, half a mile’s not much of a detour.

At 10.30 in the morning.

They’d had an early start.

Brogan pulled a map from the compartment in the door beside him. Show me. He stepped from the car and spread the Ordnance Survey sheet across the bonnet.

They started here. Doyle traced his finger across tightly packed contour lines. Up to the top of this ridge, then down to the river, here. That’s just along the lane...We’re here.

A car door slammed. They both looked toward the sound. A white van with a silver satellite dish on its roof stood in the lane beyond the cottages.

Shit, Brogan said and looked back to the map. And walk’s-end is where?

Over in the next valley. The bus driver was waiting for them in the car park below Kippur. Doyle’s finger circled over the map, then, stabbed down. There.

Brogan looked up. A tall blonde, not dressed for the Wicklow countryside, walked toward them holding a microphone, as if already mid-interview. Behind her, a cameraman hoisted his equipment out of the side door of the van.

Brogan snatched up the map without attempting to fold it. Let’s get out of here before the circus starts.

Where to? Doyle asked, over the roof of the car, before he ducked into the driver’s seat.

Walk’s-end. We’ll catch up with the search teams there.

The squad car’s radio crackled as Doyle guided them away from their would-be interviewer. Brogan caught ‘bus’ and ‘disappeared.’ There was a screech of static, interspersed with, ‘French tourists... Military Road’, then half of a registration number. We can take the Military Road, he said. It’s a bit longer, but not much. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He didn’t like that. They were never wrong, and they always meant trouble.

~ * ~

The first of the search and rescue teams were already sipping from steaming mugs in the shale-covered car park when Doyle pulled to a halt behind a makeshift refreshment tent. There were two other squad cars and an ambulance parked beyond it. Brogan could see the Land Rovers of the rescue team pulled onto the moor further up the road. He leaned forward and peered up the gorse-covered hillside at the far side of the road. A ragged line of searchers made its way down the mountainside toward them.

He looked at Doyle. Go get some teas, and something hot to eat, if there is anything.

Doyle made a show of rifling through his pockets.

Brogan pulled a twenty-euro note from his wallet and handed it to him. And I want the change.

’Course, Guv. Doyle took the note and slid from the car.

Brogan sighed as he watched the young garda turn left and disappear from view behind the refreshment tent. He had to put a stop to the ‘Guv’. It really was starting to irritate him. Too much Brit TV, like as not. He shook his head and looked back to the hillside.

His stomach rumbled. His eyes flicked back to the tent. Another sigh escaped him when he saw Doyle returning with only two plastic cups of what he assumed was tea. He leaned across the width of the car and pushed the door open. Food, Doyle, what about food?

Doyle leaned into the car and held out one of the cups. Nothing hot, Guv, only sandwiches.

Brogan took his tea. "Show some bloody initiative, will you, and stop with the ‘Guv’. It’s starting to